


Bad Things Happen

by EveryDarkCorner



Category: DCU, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail, Broken limb, Hand Gagging, Hostage Situations, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Strangling, Unwilling Suspension, broken angel, carved mark, chained to a bed, denied food as punishment, i have you now my pretty, kind restraints, locked in a trunk, passing out from pain, poison/venom, shock collar, strapped to an operating table
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2019-10-09 10:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 25,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17405138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryDarkCorner/pseuds/EveryDarkCorner
Summary: The author tortures Robin over and over and over ...Shorts written for Bad Things Happen Bingo on Tumblr!





	1. Chained to a Bed

**Author's Note:**

> "Chained to a Bed", requested by freakedelic on Tumbr.

The bed springs creaked as Slade slid his knee over the sheets, leaning closer.

               ‘Let me go.’  Robin kept his voice low.  Quiet.  Tried not to let Slade hear the tremors rattling through his body.

               Hands curled around Robin’s knees, broad and solid.  ‘I don’t think so, Robin.’

               The way he drawled Robin’s name sent another, deeper shiver racing upwards through Robin’s spine.  Slade tightened his grip, and shoved Robin’s legs apart.

               ‘Slade!’ Robin jerked.  The chains at his wrists rattled as he tugged, instinctively lunging to strike at Slade, to shove him away.  The cuffs were tight—sharp metal bands, biting cold into his skin.  Pinning his arms over his head.  ‘Slade—stop!’

               He kicked out, and saw the flash of a black glove an instant before Slade’s knuckles cracked across his face.

               Stars exploded in Robin’s vision.  He groaned, the bed rocking underneath him, blood thumping in his cheek.  He was vaguely aware of the sound of tearing fabric, and then cold air his legs.  He took a sharp breath.

               ‘Slade—’

               ‘You disobeyed me today, Robin.’  And Slade was closer now, his hands on the backs of Robin’s knees, bending them up, folding Robin like a paper fan.  ‘When you disobey, you are punished.’

               Robin couldn’t breathe.  He tried to kick again, but his head spun and he couldn’t—he couldn’t—

               He closed his hands into fists.  Turned his face into the pillows.  Tried not to scream.

               The cuffs cut lines into his wrists.  And he focused on that.

               And tried to ignore the rest.


	2. Locked in a Trunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Locked in a Trunk", requested by hereticartiste on Tumblr.

He woke up slow and groggy.  Robin tried to turn over, but something slammed into his shoulder and he flopped back down, head whirling.  He blinked, and couldn’t tell the difference between eyes open and eyes closed.

               _Drugged._

               The word wobbled across his mind like a leaf bobbing on the ripples of a lake.

               He took a slow breath.  Shifting, he raised a half-numb hand and reached for his belt.  His elbow cracked into something above him.  Robin hissed, drawing his arm back down.

               Where … where was he?

               Moving more slowly, he lifted his hands and felt around him.  He choked.

               The roof was only a few inches over his face.  He couldn’t stretch out his legs.  Robin’s breath quickened—short, sharp gasps.  Trapped.  His head swam and he shivered, throat tight.  He was locked—locked in some kind of box.

               _Buried alive._   He gasped, heart thumping against his chest like a pounding fist.  _I’ve been buried alive._

               He took a long, shaky breath.  _Stay calm._   If he was buried, he didn’t have much air.  He needed to relax.  To save his breath.  Get to his communicator and radio for help.

               Something was humming; a low, dull roar.  Machinery?  Robin shook his head.  It felt like it was all around him.  He could almost feel it vibrating around his box of a cage.

               He reached down and patted his waist.  Communicator.  Call help.

               His belt was gone.

               Robin slammed his head back against the floor.  Tears of panic welled in his eyes, and he gritted his teeth and let out a snarl, forcing them back.

               A thump jolted him.  _Literally_ jolted him; the box jerked around him, throwing him up before he banged back down.  Robin shook himself.  Suddenly the humming made sense.

               An engine.

               He wasn’t buried alive.  He was in a car.  Locked in a trunk.

               He let out a long, slow breath.  That was easier.  No need to break through a coffin; to claw his way up through piles of freshly-turned dirt.

               It was also worse.

               Because if he was in the trunk, whoever had him wasn’t done with him yet.  They wanted him for something.  And any second now, they were going to stop the car, and drag him out, and take what they wanted.  Revenge?  Plenty of people—villains—wanted him dead.  Or blackmail?  Would they send their demands to the Titans, or straight to Gotham City?

               He allowed himself one sharp breath, before closing his eyes and releasing it slowly.  His hands weren’t tied.  His head was fuzzy, but … he could still fight.  And his friends were coming.  They’d come for him.

               But for now …

               He shuffled, pressing his boot into the corner of the trunk.  Then, hissing a sharp breath, he drew his foot back and kicked.

               Something cracked under his toes.

               He drew his foot back.

               Kicked again.

               This time, the crack was a smash.  Robin hissed in victory.  He’d kicked through the brake light.  Shimmying further down, he shoved his foot out through the gap.  Anyone driving along behind his captor was bound to be suspicious of a leg poking out the trunk of the car.

               Except a moment later, Robin’s stomach swooped as the car turned sharply, then slammed to a halt.  He waited, heart pounding in his throat, as outside a car door banged and then footsteps closed in, crunching on loose rock or gravel.

               He tugged his leg back in through the brake light, but too slow—something closed around his ankle, crushingly tight.

               And then—something slammed into the top of his leg.

               Robin heard a sickening crack, like a breaking branch.  For a moment, he thought something must have snapped outside.  Then the pain swept in.

               It was like wave after wave of boiling water, pouring up through his leg.  Robin screamed.  Gasped.  Buried his face in his hands and screamed again, longer and louder.  He didn’t hear the click of the trunk opening.  Didn’t notice the fresh air as he gasped for breath.

               A bright light stabbed into his eyes.  He blinked, wincing, choking.  Beyond the light, there was a dark sky.  An empty road.  Stars.

               A familiar, split mask.  Half black, half copper.

               ‘Looks like you need another dose.’  Slade’s voice was soft and cold.  The light slipped out of Robin’s gaze—flashlight—and then Slade reached in.  And before Robin could even try to lunge up and fight him, he pressed something cool and damp to Robin’s mouth.

               Half a breath, and the stars whirled like a Ferris wheel, spinning too fast.  Robin slumped.

               Before he blacked out, he heard the trunk slam closed over his head.


	3. Carved Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Carved Mark", requested by paperponyasks on Tumblr.
> 
> This one's actually a continuation of the last prompt! It can be read separately though. :)

Robin woke up the next time with a sickening headache, and a splint on his leg.

               Groaning, he tried to push himself up.  A sharp, searing bolt of pain raced down his leg and he yelped, and fell back with a barely-choked sob.  His head landed on something soft.

               ‘Don’t try to move.’

               Robin turned his head, staring around the dim room.  The air was close and stuffy, the curtains closed against the first grey light of dawn, and he lay in a cot shoved up in the corner.

               Across the room, Slade sat in front of the door, leaning his elbows on his knees.

               ‘You …’  The room tilted, and Robin slammed a hand against his mouth as bile rose in his throat.  He swallowed it back.  Tightness coiled in his belly, but he lowered his hand, thumping his fist against the mattress.  ‘You broke my leg!’

               ‘You broke my car,’ Slade replied levelly.

               ‘Because you _kidnapped_ me!’  Robin shoved himself up again, snarling as fire tore through his lower leg.  ‘Let me go.  Let me go _right now_ , you _bastard!_ ’

               ‘You’re not going anywhere, Robin.’

               Robin drew short, sharp breaths between gritted teeth.  The cot rocked beneath him, his head thundering, his leg pounding.  ‘My friends will find me.’

               ‘No one will find you, Robin.’  Slade rose smoothly, slipping a hand into his belt.  ‘You belong to me, and you will obey me.’

               ‘Fuck you!’

               Slade stopped.  Drew a breath that rattled through the vents on his mask.  Sighed heavily.  And then took a step closer.  ‘I thought the broken leg would be enough to discipline you, but clearly you need another lesson.’  He drew his hand out of his belt, and something shone in his fist.  Something which opened with a click with he flicked it.

               Robin’s heart leaped into his throat.  ‘Slade—’

               ‘Master,’ Slade corrected, turning the knife over in his hands as he approached.  ‘You will call me “Master”, and you _will_ obey me.’

               ‘Slade, back off.’  Robin tried to draw his legs up, and snarled as his broken leg throbbed in protest.  ‘Don’t—Slade don’t—’

               Leaning close, Slade grabbed Robin’s shoulders and shoved him down.  Robin yelped, then closed his fist and threw a punch.  Slade dodged the first strike, then caught the second, capturing Robin’s hand in his much larger fist and gripping tight, crushing.  Yelling in pain, Robin beat at Slade’s shoulder with his other hand.

               ‘Let me go!  _Let me go!_ ’

               ‘You are going to learn eventually, Robin,’ Slade growled.  ‘I don’t care how long it takes.’

               He tugged Robin’s arm, and with an agonised wail Robin flipped over, his shoulder dangling off the edge of the mattress.  He heard Slade move behind him, but before he could get his hands beneath him and try to push himself up, a heavy weight landed on his lower back.

               Robin huffed, lungs crushed, and scrabbled desperately at the pillows, trying to drag himself out from under Slade’s weight.  He reached back, thumping wildly at Slade’s leg.  ‘Stop it!  Slade, let me _go!_   Slade stop, _stop!_ ’

               Slade tugged at his shirt, and then there was a clean tearing sound as the knife swept upwards and cold air hit Robin’s back, already clammy with sweat.

               The image of a knife plunging into his skin flashed across Robin’s mind.  The blade slipping between his ribs.  Working its way through muscle.  Sawing past bone.  The bed tilted and the room spun and he was going to vomit.  Bile choked his breath.

               Slade pressed an arm against Robin’s shoulders, pinning him down.

               Swallowing, Robin tried to speak.  To beg.

He let out a hoarse whimper.

               The knife cut into his skin.

               Robin buried his face in the pillows and screamed.  The blade moved in wide, deep arcs.  Over his shoulder blades.  Across his spine.  Around his mid back.  Again and again, the same stinging, searing, burning pattern.  Robin trembled and sobbed, stammering uselessly into the pillow.

               ‘Stop—stop—Slade—please—stop— _stop—please!_ ’

               Slade didn’t stop.  Not until he’d passed over the same pattern a dozen times, and Robin’s voice was nothing but a low croak, and he’d given up on words and closed his teeth around the pillow to stifle his sobs.

               Finally, Slade lifted his arm.  His weight shifted off of Robin’s back.

               Wet heat trickled over Robin’s ribs and he shuddered.  His leg felt as if it had burned away to nothing.  Nothing but a red haze of agony.  And his back—his back—

               Fingers trailed through his hair, then closed into a fist.  Robin whimpered as Slade jerked his head up.

               ‘Do you know what I’ve carved into you?’

               Robin tried to nod, but Slade gripped his hair tight enough to make him hiss.  ‘Y-yes.’

               He didn’t need to look.  He knew that symbol.  Know from just the slice of the blade.  The same symbol he’d pinned all over his bedroom wall, in photographs and newspaper clippings and frustrated doodles.  The sharp slice of a letter S.

               ‘That will be on you forever.’  Slade leaned in so close Robin felt his breath.  ‘Because you belong to me.  Don’t you?’

               A sob burst up out of Robin’s throat.  ‘Yes.’

               ‘Say it.’

               He shuddered.  ‘I belong to you.’

               ‘Good.’  Slade opened his fist and Robin dropped back into the pillows.  ‘I don’t want to have to teach you again.’

               If he could, Robin would have curled into a ball.  Buried his face in his knees.  Wrapped his arms around himself and hid—from Slade, from the dim room, from the blood trickling down his back.  But everything hurt, and his head felt like it’d been hit by a train, and he couldn’t move without more sharp, burning slices of pain slashing through him.

               So he lay still.  Lay still, as Slade eventually fetched a wash cloth and antiseptic and bandages, and didn’t complain at the sting of Slade cleaning him up, beyond the whimpers he couldn’t restrain.

               Lay still, and cried.


	4. Strangling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Strangling", requested by thatsgrossmortyy on Tumblr.

Today, it was because he refused to hit the security guard.

               Robin knew how bad it was when he got back to the base and knelt at Slade’s feet, and Slade simply said,

               ‘Take the collar off.’

               Robin winced.  ‘Sl—’  He caught himself.  ‘Master—’

               ‘Take it _off_ , Robin.  I won’t ask again.’

               Closing his eyes, Robin drew a long breath through his nose, then let it slowly out.  But when he heard Slade shift in that towering, hulking chair, he reached up quickly and traced the back of his neck.  At a touch, the metal collar that protected his throat and shoulders came loose.  He lowered it, setting it softly on the ground beside him.

               Slade would only punish him harder if he dropped it.  Or if he resisted.

               ‘Stand up.’

               Robin and rocked to his feet.  His uniform was cut high, even without the collar, but not high enough to hide the bruises.

               ‘Come here.’

               He staggered closer.

               The first time, it was for attacking Slade.  He’d snuck into the room on feet soft as whispers, and moved through the shadows like ink in oil.  And when he was close enough to strike—

               That was first time he felt Slade’s hand around his throat.

               He’d lost count of the other times.  Talking back.  Disobeying.  Not _trying_ hard enough when they trained.  That one still made him shudder.  Still made his breath catch when he woke up in the night, cold and alone, with the ghost of Slade’s weight on his hips and the phantom pressure of his hands, both of them, tight around his neck.

               As Robin grew closer, Slade reached out and touched his hip.  Robin shuddered.  That gentle touch was worse.  Because it meant Slade was calm.  _Furious_ , but calm.

               Slade was the first person he’d ever met who could be both.

               ‘Sit.’

               Face burning, Robin set his gaze over Slade’s shoulder, and sank onto his lap.  Slade’s hand slid down Robin’s leg, into the crook of his knee.  His other hand curled into Robin’s other leg, and Slade dragged him closer, spreading Robin’s legs open.  Robin tried not to notice the hard edges of Slade’s armour against the back of his thighs.  Tried not to care that he was so close he could feel the warmth of Slade’s body through his uniform.

               Slade reached up and traced Robin’s face with the back of his gloved fingers.  ‘Tell me what you did wrong.’

               Robin closed his eyes.  Clenched his jaw.  Then, as Slade’s fingers trailed near his mouth, he said, ‘I didn’t hit the security guard.’

               He was ancient.  A skeleton wrapped in loose skin, tottering through the hallways of the museum in his little blue cap with his little flashlight.  Even if he’d spotted Robin, he couldn’t have done much more than ask politely for Robin to put the artefact back.  He was the sort of man Girl Guides helped to cross the street.

               So when the order crackled through the microphone, Robin ignored it.

               _‘Take him down, Robin.’_

               He got the artefact, and got out, and no one spotted him.  Not even the security guard.

               But he disobeyed an order.

               He disobeyed _Slade_.

               And now, Slade’s fingers curled around his exposed throat.  ‘Tell me what you’ll do next time.’

               Robin swallowed.  No—no—he wouldn’t.  He wasn’t just going to _hurt_ people because Slade scared him.  Because Slade hurt him.

               _‘Robin._ ’

               He didn’t respond.

               ‘This is going to hurt, Robin.’  Slade’s voice lowered, lethal, and his fingers tightened just a fraction.  Enough to send spasms of pain throbbing through the bruises already littered there.  ‘You decide how much.’

               _Slade’s weight pressing him down into the training mat.  His lungs burning.  He kicked.  Failed.  Beat at Slade’s shoulders, but still it didn’t stop.  It didn’t stop, and the edge of his vision went black, and this was it—Slade was going to kill him—_

               Robin shuddered.  ‘Next time, I’ll hit him.’  He hesitated a beat, then for good measure, added, ‘Master.’

               Slade’s grip didn’t loosen.  ‘Good boy.’  But still, he closed his fingers tighter around Robin’s throat, and tighter.

               Staring down into Slade’s face, Robin tried to swallow, but it was already impossible.  Slade’s fingertips dug into the muscles either side of his neck.  Dug into the aching bruises.  Robin gasped another tiny breath; the last air he managed before Slade’s fist curled and his throat closed.

               No point trying to fight.  Slade wouldn’t kill him.

               Not like this.  Not today.

               Just with one punishment after another.  Chipping away at Robin until there was no defiance left.  Until there was no _Robin_ left.  And Robin didn’t know how to stop Slade killing him like that.

               So he sat, and waited for Slade to let him breathe again.


	5. Broken Limb and Passing Out From the Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Broken Limb" and "Passing Out From the Pain", requested by Yamad-a on Tumblr.

It was a fucking stupid mistake.

               Slade was right in front of him.  _Right there._

               Robin’s feet pounded over the rooftop, the grapple heavy in his fist.  Behind him, an explosion tore through Bernel Street, shaking through the building beneath him.  He stumbled, caught himself, and kept running.  He didn’t glance back.  The Titans had it under control.  He trusted them.

               He could take care of Slade.

               Slade leaped off the building up ahead, just as Robin grappled onto it.  He was always one building ahead.  Always just one.

               Baring his teeth, Robin hissed and forced already-aching muscles to pump harder, move faster.  He raced closer, and closer.  Slade hadn’t reached the edge of the other building yet, but Robin swept his grapple up and aimed, and knew the instant he landed he’d close the gap.

               Except he missed.

               A second explosion rocked the building beneath him, and he jolted and his arm dropped an inch before the grapple fired with a hiss.  The rope shot out and down, snaking lower the further it went.  Robin fumbled for the return switch, too slow, and the grapple slammed into the wall six feet lower than he’d intended.  Before he could even think to drop it, the grapple flicked automatically onto return—

               And yanked him out into the void.

               His stomach swooped and the world tilted, the way it used to when he slipped up at the circus, just before he landed in the crash net.

 _No crash net,_ he thought.

               Then he hit the wall.

               He heard a crack, and the grapple slipped out of his hand.  He tumbled back, scrabbling, but his arms wouldn’t obey him and in the space of a breath he’d forgotten which way was the wall and which way was up, and he thought he heard Slade bellowing—‘Robin!’—before something slammed into him and he blacked out.

               Everything was black, and then it was grey, and he woke up with a coppery taste in his mouth and agony shooting down his arm.  Robin drew a breath and screamed.  It felt like his skin was peeling away.  Like his bones were melting.

               A few gasps, and he gritted his teeth and pushed the next cry of pain out between them.  Another second, and he managed to orient himself.  Lying on his back.  He stretched his good arm out, and shattered glass tinkled under his fingers.

               ‘Good to know you’re awake.’

               Robin jerked upright, and meant to say, ‘Slade!’ but all that came out was another sickening scream as his arm blistered like it was being wrenched off.  He curled his knees up and bent over him, gasping, stomach coiling.

               ‘I wouldn’t push it, if I were you.’

               Robin lifted his head, and found Slade leaning back against a desk in an empty office.  Row after row of tables lined the room, the tops of the office chairs poking over them like gravestones in the dark.  Next to him, cool air drifted through the smashed window.

               Slade flicked a lamp on behind him, throwing his body into a blurry silhouette.  ‘I caught you, but you’re hurt.’

               Heart pounding, Robin tried to tuck his feet under him.  But he couldn’t move—not any part of him—without his arm searing.  He cried out and fell back, and finally dared to glance at his arm.

               For a dazed moment, he could only think that his hand was on backwards.  Then he saw the white flash of bone, and bile washed up his throat.

               Across the room, Slade straightened and stalked closer—slow, measured footsteps that Robin tried to scramble away from, only to fall back, gasping and groaning.  ‘You’re coming with me, Robin.’  Slade feet came level with Robin’s head.  ‘And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’

               He lifted his foot, and for a sickening moment Robin tried and _tried_ to lift his arm, and couldn’t—

               And then Slade brought his boot down on the broken bone.

               Robin blacked out before he had time to scream.


	6. I Have You Now, My Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I Have You Now, My Pretty", requested by luvkurai on Tumblr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier today, I accidentally posted this as a new chapter on Where the Light Won't Find You, because I am secretly a collection of capuchins in a trenchcoat smashing at a keyboard and pretending to be a functioning human being. This is where it *actually* belongs.
> 
> Really sorry to anybody I confused with that fumble!

Slade watched him change.  He _watched_.

               The spotlight cut through the room like a blade, warm on his bare skin.  Face burning, Robin kicked off his boots and unclasped his belt.  Slade remained a shadow in the unlit corner of the room, not moving, breathing so softly Robin might’ve forgotten he was there.  Except he could _feel_ Slade’s eyes on him.  Searing through his skin.

               Dropping his belt with his boots, Robin peeled off his gloves.  He balled them up and stuffed them in his shoe, putting off the inevitable.

                Letting out a slow breath, he straightened.  Curled his fingers in the hem of his shirt.

               Glanced at Slade.

               And tugged the shirt off over his head.

               The instant the spotlight hit his bare shoulders, he stepped back into the shadows.  Suddenly, he understood why Raven liked to pull that sweeping cloak around herself.  Something about Slade’s eyes on his body made his skin crawl.

               ‘No, Robin,’ Slade said smoothly.  ‘Stay in the light.’

               ‘Why?’ Robin shot back.

               A pause, and although he couldn’t see Slade’s face, Robin got the impression he was licking his lips.  ‘So I can see you.’

               Robin went cold.  His heart leaped into his throat, and he was backing up before he’d even realised he was moving, because no way, _no way_ —

               Slade moved so fast Robin had barely turned to face him before the fist swung up into his jaw.  His teeth crashed together and he tumbled back, and landed heavy.  The breath huffed out of him, pain pulsing through his face.

               ‘Get up, Robin.’

               The room swayed.  Robin shook his head, trying to get his feet under him.  A hand curled around his arm and yanked, dragging him up.

               ‘I said _get up._ ’

               Robin staggered, but kept his feet.  Slade’s hand remained tight on his arm, tugging him back so his shoulders slammed into Slade’s chest.

               ‘When I tell you to do something, you will obey.’  Slade’s breath traced Robin’s ear and he shuddered.  Slade’s other arm curled around Robin’s body, and with a flash of silver, the trigger slipped out of Slade’s sleeve and into his waiting palm.  ‘Or else …’

               ‘I know,’ Robin ground out.  ‘I know.’

               The trigger disappeared into Slade’s armour.  ‘Then stay in the light.  Keep still.  And keep your eyes forward.’

               Robin clenched his jaw as Slade drew back his arm, but didn’t move.  Fine.  Slade wanted to watch him strip?  _Fine._   He wouldn’t let Slade shame him.  And that was all it was—a power play—another way to make Robin feel small and powerless, and—

               He heard the click, but didn’t realise it was Slade’s mask until he felt bare skin press against his neck, just behind his ear.  Robin jolted, and began to turn, but—

               ‘Eyes forward, Robin.’  Slade’s hand tightened on Robin’s arm.

               And before Robin could take a breath, he felt something warm and wet at the base of his throat.  It traced up over his skin, and Robin sucked a gasp and jerked in Slade’s grip as he realised—

               Slade’s tongue curled behind his ear, and then his teeth snapped down on Robin’s earlobe.

               With a yelp, Robin tried to lunge away, but Slade’s arms closed around his bare torso, dragging him back, crushing him close.

               ‘You’re going to learn, Robin.’  Slade’s lips brushed the shell of Robin’s ear, his breath hot.  ‘However long it takes.  You decide how difficult this is going to be.’

               His hands slipped down Robin’s body, and Robin—

               Robin kept still.  And kept his eyes forward.


	7. Shock Collar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shock Collar" requested by deadlydove on AO3.

Robin crashed through another door, heart galloping so high in his throat it felt ready to burst out his mouth.

               Another dark, dusty room.  Another door.  Another complex weave of interconnecting gears—those damn gears Slade was so obsessed with.  He gasped, legs shaking, trying to listen over the pounding of his own blood in his ears.  Listen past the creaking and grinding and groaning of the gears as they revolved around him.  Listen for footsteps.

               The band around his throat was chokingly tight.  He dug his fingers under the leather, but couldn’t find a clasp or a catch anywhere to loosen it.

               ‘Robin …’

               Slade didn’t have to shout.  His voice whispered through the dust, like dead leaves rattling down an empty road.  Robin jolted, turning on the spot.  The room swayed around him and he staggered.

               How did he get here?  There was the fight on Grace Street; the explosion; Starfire screaming as he tumbled and the world greyed at the edges.  And then—and then—

               Robin squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to force deeper gulps of air into his lungs.  And then he was here.  With no cloak, no belt, and this _thing_ around his neck.

               And Slade.

               ‘Robin, there’s no point in running.’

               He was close now—his voice just beyond the door Robin had run through.  And now his footsteps echoed down the hall.  Close and growing closer.

               Gritting his teeth, Robin fixed on the door across the room and ran, swerving around a gear twice his height.  He slammed into the door shoulder-first, but it didn’t budge, and when he rattled the handle, it fell off in his fist.

               Letting out a snarl, Robin backed up, and swung his foot up into the door.  The bang wafted up through the room, repeating in mocking little echoes, but the door didn’t budge.  He kicked again.  The hinges rattled.  Again.  The door shook.  Again.  Almost loose.

               Slade’s footsteps reached the door.

               Robin turned, leapt at the giant gear, and let it carry him up into the shadows near the ceiling.  As it crested, he lunged onto a spinning bar with another gear whirling at its far end.  For a moment he wobbled, arms flying out for balance.  Then he bent his knees and sprang, and this time got purchase on a pipe as thick as his torso.  Hauling himself up, he shuffled along pipe until he reached the wall, then curled up against it.

               He watched Slade walk in.

               ‘Dead end, Robin,’ Slade said softly, not looking up.  ‘I know you’re in here.’

               Robin didn’t answer, concentrating on slowing his breathing.  Hiding in the shadows was Batman’s trick—a good one.  It gave him time to think.

               And time to work his fingers back under the leather collar, tugging and twisting.  It was so tight he could barely wiggle one finger in, and once he had he couldn’t move it.  He ran his hands over its surface, searching.  If Slade got it on him, there had to be a way to get it off.  What was it—tracking him?  A lump at the back of his neck felt like a power pack, and metal plates on the inside pressed against his bare skin.  He tugged, but the leather didn’t budge.

               Slade walked lightly across the floor below, head tilted back, single grey eye searching through the spinning machinery.  ‘You’re going to come down from there, Robin.  One way or another.’

               Robin drew a long, slow breath, and waited for the sound of Slade climbing up onto the gears.  It would give him a chance—just a few seconds—to drop down and run for the door again.  One more hit and he could break it open. 

               But Slade didn’t move.  ‘Come down here now, Robin, or you will regret it.’

               A few breathless seconds.  Robin waited, eyes closed, listening.  Come on.  _Come on._

               ‘Have it your way,’ Slade murmured.

               And then pain blazed through Robin’s body.

               Needles stabbed into his throat, sharp and prickling.  He jolted, yelping, as searing heat crackled through his skin, jerking his muscles.  He ground his teeth, straining against the sensation of his skin blistering away.

               Just as suddenly, it stopped.

               Robin fell back against the wall, panting, stunned he hadn’t slipped off the pipe.

               The collar.  It was the damn collar.

               ‘That was the first setting.’  Far below, Slade lifted something over his head—a black remote, with a single dial.  ‘Shall we play a game, Robin?  Let’s see how high I can turn this before you fall.’

               Robin managed a gasp, and had his lips halfway around a ‘No!’ before the pain swept in again.

               He curled tight, hands trembling, muscles burning as they pulsed and twitched.  He forced air between gritted teeth, but he could do this.  It was just pain.  You didn’t get a career fighting bad guys if you couldn’t handle being knocked around.

               ‘You’re doing well.’  Slade’s voice was soft and cold as silk.  ‘That must hurt a _lot_.’

               He punctuated the last word with a twist of the dial.  Robin screamed through his clenched jaw, eyes watering.  He forced his twitching hands to raise.  Dug a finger under the collar and dragged it back, as far as he could.  The collar hissed, electricity crackling as it jumped from the metal pad to Robin’s skin.

               ‘Shall we try the highest setting?’

               Robin tried to grind out a _no_ , to beg Slade to stop.  But his mouth was dry as sand and he couldn’t force his jaw open.  Tears trailed, sticky, down his face.

               Slade turned the dial.

               It felt like a blade, slicing through Robin’s throat.  His body jerked, all at once, then seized.  He barely felt his stomach swoop as he rolled sideways off the pipe.  But he did hear Slade—just before he slammed into the ground—

               ‘Down you come.’


	8. Unwilling Suspension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Unwilling Suspension" for Fancy_Dragonqueen on Pillowfort.

Robin spent a solid hour tugging at the chains in the dark.

               The cuffs squeezed his wrists, tight enough to ache despite the soft leather padding.  His hands dangled at the level of his chest, crossed over one another, as he heaved and yanked and snarled, hauling with his full weight and seeing no effect.  The chain rattled above him, soft and mocking, like tiny ringing bells.  When he curled his palms around it, he found thick, sturdy links.

               Panting, he stared up into the darkness.  Maybe if he could climb all the way up, he’d find a hook he could tug loose at the top.  But that meant climbing with his hands tied  …

               Lights blazed on, and he hissed.  Wincing and blinking, he stood straight, trying to take everything in at once.  Circular room.  Single door.  A lever squatted on the stone floor a few feet away, almost as tall as he was.  Stage lights were built into the walls, obscuring the true height of the ceiling.

               And stalking towards him—

               _Slade._

               Robin bared his teeth.  ‘ _You—_ ’

               ‘Me.’  Slade stopped beside the lever, arms folded behind him.  ‘You have some information I want, Robin.  And you are going to give it to me.’  Reaching out, he drummed his fingers once on the lever.  ‘Where are the Titans?’

               Robin snorted.  ‘As I’m gonna tell you.’

               Safe.  That was where they were.  Safe, and that was all that mattered.  The look of horror in Starfire’s eyes as Robin bellowed, _‘Fly, fly now!’_ —the dirt and blood caked in Beast Boy’s hair—the wires hanging out of Cyborg’s shoulder as Raven dragged him to his feet—

               The hands that grabbed him, and dragged him away from them as they fled.

               Didn’t matter.  It _didn’t matter_.  They were safe.

               Slade tilted his head.  ‘Oh, but you are going to tell me, Robin.’  He curled his fingers around the lever.  ‘Let’s play a game.’

               The lever screeched as he yanked it back.  High in the deep blackness of the ceiling, something groaned, like a creature waking and shaking off its scales.  The chain at Robin’s wrists jerked—and rose up.

               His hands came up level with his chin before Slade pulled the lever back.

               ‘Every time you refuse to answer—every time you _lie_ to me—I’ll raise the chain a little higher.’  Slade moved closer, and suddenly Robin was glad his hands were at the right height to shield his face.  But he couldn’t bring them down—couldn’t stop Slade grabbing his hip, and dragging him in until their lower bodies pressed together.  ‘Give me the correct answer, and maybe I’ll let you down.’  Slade’s grey eye flicked up.  ‘However high you are, by then.  Ready?’

               Robin arched his shoulders back.  His skin crawled; goose bumps itched on the back of his neck.  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

               Slade tilted his head.  ‘Wrong answer.’

               He slipped back, and grabbed the lever, and next second Robin’s hands dangled up over his forehead.  He closed them into fists, gritting his teeth.

               ‘Your game isn’t gonna work, Slade,’ he spat.  ‘I don’t know where the Titans are.’

               For the first time since he crouched next to the world’s greatest detective on a Gotham rooftop, Robin was _proud_ not to know something.

               ‘I’m sure you have some ideas.’  Another tug on the lever; Robin’s hands jerked higher, stretching over his head.

               Robin spluttered.  ‘What?  What— _no._   Slade, I don’t _know_.’

               Slade stepped in close again, and this time, when Robin tried to lean away, his toes skidded on the floor and he swung forwards instead.  Slade caught his waist and held him close.  ‘They won’t have gone far.’ Slade’s hands tightened as Robin kicked and struggled to drag himself away.  His fingers dug into Robin’s ribs.  ‘Not as far as Gotham, in their state.  So where do you think they’d go, Robin?  Gateway?  Coast?  Star City?’

               Star City.  Robin’s eyes widened, and then he fought to bring his expression back to neutral.  Cyborg had family in Star City.  Family who could patch him up.  Shield the Titans.  Help them get back on their feet …

               ‘Central,’ he said firmly.  ‘They’ve gone to Central.’

               Slade sighed, and it took Robin a moment to realise it was a sigh of laughter.  ‘Oh, Robin.  You’re a bad liar.’

               He reached back with one arm and pulled the lever again, and Robin hissed as the chain went taught, his arms stretching and aching.  He wobbled up on his toes, his back dead straight.  The chain stopped just short of lifting him off the ground.

               ‘Star City, then,’ Slade said.

               Robin lifted his chin, panting, trying not to groan when he exhaled.  ‘No—’

               ‘ _Yes_ , Robin.’  Slade’s hands, on either side of Robin’s body, ran slowly up his ribs and back down.  He shoved Robin’s belt up.  ‘Now you have a choice.’  He slipped his fingertips into the waistband of Robin’s leggings; Robin’s skin prickled and he jerked back, but couldn’t wrench himself from Slade.  ‘You can come down, and do as you’re told, or you can hang here until you’ve learned to behave.’

               Teeth gritted, fists clenched, Robin hauled on the chain, dragging himself up and out of Slade’s grip.  But that only meant Slade’s hands slipped lower on his hips, dragging his leggings down.  Robin yelped, and dropped.

               Slade drew one hand away, reached back, and tugged the lever.  It screeched; the chain groaned.  Robin’s arms strained and his toes dangled.  He hissed as he lifted into the air.  The cuffs now felt twice as tight.  Within a few seconds, his fingertips tingled, and his spine creaked at the unnatural stretch.

               Slade pushed his hands down Robin’s body, slowly, like he was savouring it.  Robin’s stomach flipped; his throat tightened, and he swallowed bile.

               ‘For what it’s worth, Robin,’ Slade murmured, ‘I was hoping you’d chose the hard way.’


	9. Strapped to an Operating Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by barbieeee on AO3.

The drumming woke him up.

               Robin winced.  He ached, his body stiff and heavy—that atrophied feeling he usually got after training too hard for too long, after the warmth of adrenaline wore off.  He was lying on his back, on something hard.  Somewhere nearby, drums thudded.  Each beat pounded in his head.

               _Da-da-da-dum.  Da-da-da-dum._

               He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was swollen and dry, like a lump of felt sitting heavy in his mouth.  He drew a breath and smelled disinfectant—sharp and bitter.

               ‘He’s waking up.’

               Robin didn’t recognise that voice.  It echoed, strange and distant.  He opened his eyes, grimacing as light blazed in his face.  He tried to lift a hand, to cover his eyes.

               Metal tightened around his wrist.

               ‘That doesn’t matter.  Keep working.’

               Robin jolted. 

 _That_ voice, he recognised.  Slow.  Deep.  Cold.

               Blinking furiously, he gritted his teeth and shook the weariness from his limbs.  He spread his hands open—both locked at his sides.  When he jerked his knees, restraints bit into his ankles.  He drew another sharp breath, heart thumping, and tried to snarl.  But his voice came out weak, barely more than a croak.

               ‘Slade …’

               The drums sounded again— _da-da-da-dum_ —and as Robin’s eyes adjusted to the glare, he saw Slade’s black-gloved hand on the table and realised it was his fingers.  He drummed them again, each beat pounding in Robin’s skull like a hammer.  Then Slade lifted his hand, and set it gently on Robin’s elbow.

               ‘Robin.’

               ‘Let me go.’  Robin closed his fists, but his fingers were feeble—practically numb.  The more pressure he applied, the more they tingled and failed to tighten.  ‘Let me out of here.’

               ‘You couldn’t stand in your state,’ Slade replied simply, as if Robin’s _state_ wasn’t entirely his fault.  ‘You need to stay down.’

               Somewhere near Robin’s feet, the voice he didn’t recognise said, ‘The serum’s ready.’

               Robin lifted his head, groaning with the effort.  But beyond the haze of white light— _spotlight_ , he realised belatedly—he could only make out a vague, grey figure.

               Slade waved his other hand.  ‘Continue.’

               ‘Continue what?’ Robin hissed, jerking against his restraints.  ‘What’re you doing?’

               ‘Don’t worry, Robin.  It won’t hurt.’  Slade squeezed Robin’s elbow.

               The grey figure loomed on Robin’s other side.  Robin twisted and heaved, but his body was so heavy, and the restraints so solid.  Cold fingers grasped his arm, and he felt the thin, sharp slice of a needle slipping under his skin.

               ‘Slade!’  His heart thundered, goose bumps storming over his skin.  ‘Slade, what are you doing?  Stop, _stop!_ ’

               ‘Don’t be dramatic.’  Slade’s voice remained low and calm.  ‘The procedure is safe.  After all—’ through the white haze, Robin just about made out Slade’s single grey eye as it flicked away, and then back to his face, ‘—I’ve been through it myself.’

               Cold spread under Robin’s skin.  At first he thought it was dread—then he realised it was the needle, pumping cool liquid into his blood.  He shuddered, twisting his head, teeth chattering as he tried to snarl.  His throat was sore, worn raw from the little he’d managed already, and he wheezed.  Panicked tears ran, hot and sticky, from the corners of his eyes.

               ‘You’ll be fine, Robin,’ Slade murmured as the edges of Robin’s vision darkened once more.  ‘Better than fine.  You’re going to be _perfect_.  You’re going to be just like me.’


	10. Sleep Deprivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sleep Deprivation", requested by hereticartiste and mekkah5225 on Tumblr.

The woods were dark as ink and deep as the sea, and Slade’s torch cut through them like a knife.

               ‘You’d better not be about to pass out on me again, Robin.’

               A cold shiver raced up Robin’s spine.  He lifted his head, and felt like he was lifting the weight of a planet.  He swallowed.  ‘No.’

               ‘Then _move_.’  Slade curled his hand around Robin’s arm and thrust him forward.

               Robin staggered, the ground tilting underneath him.  How long had it been—how long since they left Jump?  He remembered the sun setting yesterday and rising again this morning.  His shoulder bumped against a tree and he stumbled, but righted himself and kept moving.

               If he didn’t, Slade would only punish him.

               He glanced over his shoulder and found Slade’s shadow only a step behind, his torch sending a pool of burning yellow light sweeping over the forest floor.

               It was night again now, and he wasn’t sure when that happened.  Sometime after Slade turned off the track and pushed Robin into the woods.

               His feet throbbed.  The ground swayed beneath him, and blood pounded at the front of his skull, pressing into the back of his eyes.  He wanted to close them.  _Needed_ to close them.  Needed to _sleep_.

               He didn’t realise he’d stopped until Slade shoved him again.

               ‘I said keep moving, Robin.  We’re almost there.’

               Robin sagged.  _Take a step.  Take another step.  Another step.  Another._   ‘Almost where?  Where are you taking me?’

               Slade didn’t respond.  Just like he hadn’t the last ten times Robin asked.

               Whining filled Robin’s ears, quiet but shrill.  He shook his head.  Blinked hard.  Kept walking.  He tried to listen to the wind rushing through the branches high above them; to the creaking of the branches as they swayed; the scurrying and hooting and scratching of nocturnal animals in the woods.  But that tinnitus whine cut through it all.  Like a siren.  A warning bell.

               His legs were so heavy.

               He let his head drop again.  It was easier to walk with his head down.  Easier if he just closed his eyes … just halfway …

               Slade’s hand dropped on his shoulder, and Robin jerked upright.  He sucked a breath through his teeth, waiting for the blow to his ribs—the back of his head—his legs—where the bruises still ached to the touch—

               But Slade stopped short, drawing Robin close to his side.  ‘We’re here.’

               Robin stared up at him, then gradually followed his gaze to the dark shape looming between the trees.  A cabin.  His legs trembled.  A _cabin_.  A place to rest.  _A place to sleep_.

               ‘No one will find you here, Robin,’ Slade murmured.  ‘No one will even know to look.’

               Tears burned Robin’s eyes, but he was barely listening.  He was so tired.  So goddamn tired.  ‘I want to sleep.’  Slade’s hand tightened on his shoulder.  ‘Please, please let me _sleep_.’

               ‘Yes …’ Slade said slowly.  As if he hadn’t thought of it.  As if he’d forgotten sleep was a thing normal human beings needed.  ‘Yes, you can sleep here.’

               He pushed Robin on, and Robin couldn’t be bothered to brush Slade’s hand from his shoulder.  The trees spun around him.  As they reached the door, Robin blinked up at the stars.  They twitched and danced, moving across the sky in rippling, dizzying patterns.  And when Slade opened the door and Robin looked down, the stars remained in front of his eyes, pulsing like strobes.

               He tumbled into the cabin after Slade, and hissed when Slade flicked the lights on.  The bare bulbs flashed, once, twice, ticking softly as they warmed up before coming on fully with a droning buzz.  The room inside was sparse—empty fireplace; rickety table and chairs.

               Setting the torch on the table, Slade reached up and loosened his mask.  It opened with a soft click, and he lifted it away.  It went down beside the torch with a metallic thud.

               His face was familiar, but somehow wrong.  Out of focus.  As though the lines in his skin had become misplaced, or his good eye had swapped sides, and Robin swayed as his vision blurred.  He pressed a hand to his forehead.

               ‘The bedroom’s that way.’  Slade nodded at the door across the room.

               Robin staggered to the door, grabbed the handle and damn near fell into the next room.  Sparse again, but this one— _this one_ —had a bed.  It was large, too, taking up most of the room, and covered in clean sheets.  Robin hiccoughed.  His vision blurred again and it was a moment before he realised he was crying.

               It was another moment before he realised Slade had followed him into the room.

               Dropping onto the edge of the bed, Slade reached down to tug his boots off, and then opened his belt.  Robin watched, blinking dazedly.  What—what was Slade— _doing_?  The armour at Slade’s wrists came off next, clicking as he opened the latches.  Then the collar protecting his shoulders and throat.  He set them down on the floorboards, lining everything up with militant order.

               Robin’s fingers twitched at the sight of Slade’s bare neck.  If he could just get his hands around it … just for a minute …

               He took a step forward, and Slade ignored him, drawing down the zip at the back of his uniform.  Another step.  Robin’s feet ached and his legs burned, but it was only another step.  Only one more, after so many.

               Slade’s single eye flicked up.  ‘If you’re thinking of attacking me, you’d better hope you can find your own way back out of the woods.’

               Robin stared.  His tongue felt like a dry lump of rock.  His hands were lead weights, heaving down his wrists.  He stepped back.  Slumped against the wall.  No way out.  No way out of the woods.

               Nodding, Slade bit off one glove, then the other.  So this was Slade’s room.  Slade’s bed.  Not his.

               ‘I just want to sleep.’

               ‘Then sleep.’  Slade slipped the shirt of his uniform down over his arms.  Underneath, his skin was tanned and scarred, wrapped around muscles like boulders.

               ‘Where?’ Robin croaked.  ‘Where do _I_ sleep?  Where’s _my_ bed?’

               ‘There’s only one bed, Robin.’  Slade stood.  ‘You share it with me, or you don’t sleep.’

               Robin felt like he’d fallen in deep water.  He could hear it rushing over him, roaring and echoing.  He could feel the cold biting into his skin.

               Slade stepped closer.

               He stumbled away.  ‘No.’

               ‘Then stay awake.’  Slade closed in like a predator, crowding Robin into the corner of the room.  He stretched his arms out, landing them on the walls either side of Robin’s head.  ‘If you can.’

               Robin lashed out with a punch.  Slade smacked his fist away, but the moment he raised his arm Robin ducked under it, and ran.  Head spinning, heart pounding, he darted through the door.  The floor tilted and he stumbled, but he raced back across the other room, then out into the darkness of the woods—

               Stars glittered at the corners of his vision.  He gasped, pushing his legs to move— _move—_

               Clouds bubbled and streaked across the trees.  Robin thought for a moment that was strange.  Clouds shouldn’t be so low; shouldn’t move so fast.

               And then his legs buckled, and the ground rushed up at his face like a swinging fist.

               He tumbled and tumbled and tumbled, spinning and falling, and catching snatches of sounds and sensations like shreds of ripped up paper.  An arm around his shoulders.  Lights burning, and then flicking out.  Rough hands dragging down his ribs.  A warm, wet touch at the nape of his neck.  The ache of legs being forced to bend too far—heat and pressure—

               His face pressing into a pillow.

               Nothing mattered.

               He slept.


	11. Kind Restraints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kind Restraints" written for wolfbad on Tumblr.
> 
> This one follows on from "Strapped to a Table", but you probably don't need to have read that one to understand it. :)

His bones had shattered.

               They must have.  Robin woke up screaming, and nothing— _nothing_ —could hurt this bad.  He thrashed, muscles spasming wildly, teeth gnashing, jerking and twisting and screeching.  The pain was deep.  So deep.  Buried somewhere under his skin.  Scalding through his nerves.

               Arching his back, he curled his fists, and something soft gathered under his fingers.  _Blankets._   When he threw his head back, trying to slam the pain out of his skull, he thumped into pillows.

               He was in a bed, somewhere.  Where?  What _happened_ to him?

               It was dark, and that was worse.  Because if only he could see, he might see what was hurting him and somehow prise it off.  Except it was _inside_ him.  Burrowing in him, cold and searing and _agony_.  He scraped his hands across his chest and shrieked.  ‘GET IT OUT, _GET IT OUT!_ ’

               He barely heard the door slam open against the wall, or the voice calling for him, low and sharp.  Then the lights flicked on.

               Needles, stabbing in his eyes.  He was wrong.  The darkness was better.  Darkness didn’t sear through his vision like light didn’t—didn’t send the pain blazing through his brain.  Burying his face in his hands, he screamed and sobbed.  ‘MAKE IT STOP!’

               ‘Make _what_ stop?’ A hand landed on his arm, drawing it off his face.  And where the touch landed, Robin’s skin burned.

               He hissed and raised his head, wincing at the blinding brightness.  Black and copper mask.  And somehow, Robin could see every microscopic dent and scratch and fibre—and it all _hurt_ , it hurt _so much_.

               Through the blaze of pain, the memories flicked back to him.  The lab.  Strapped down.  The cold sting of a needle.

               ‘You lied,’ he snarled, barely able to grind the words out between gritted teeth.  ‘You said the serum wouldn’t _hurt_!  YOU _LIED_!’  Fire shredded through his bones and he curled over, barely able to gasp for breath before the next scream tore out of him.

               ‘It’s been hours.  The serum is out of your system.’  Slade curled his hands around Robin’s wrists as Robin buried his hands in his own hair and yanked at it.  ‘Robin, _stop_!’

               Robin instead pressed his fingers into his shoulders, digging his nails in deep and dragging them down.  Somehow, the pain on his skin lessened the pain _under_ it.  Like he was drawing it away.  Dragging it out.  ‘Slade—’ his voice cracked, ‘—it’s killing me.’

               For a moment, Slade was silent, staring down at Robin.  And his _eye_.  Robin always thought it was grey, but now he could see with agonising focus every streak of cold blue and white and navy that went into making that grey—could see the way the colours tumbled inwards at the black pit of Slade’s pupil.

               And without consciously looking, he could make out every scrap of the room.  The water stain on the ceiling.  The cream carpet.  The sparse furniture, painted white with broad, sloppy strokes that didn’t quite fill in the dents and scratches.  It all went in and it all _hurt_.

               Robin tore at his skin.  Arms, chest, face.  Anything he could dig his nails into.  Anything to distract from how everything was so loud and bright and _there_.

               _It’s the serum,_ he thought, when the haze of agony washed low enough for him to think at all.  _Superhuman senses.  I can’t handle it._

               ‘You’re hurting yourself.  Stop.’  Slade touched Robin’s hand.  ‘Robin, I said _stop_.’

               He grabbed Robin by the wrists, dragging his arms up.  Robin screeched and kicked.  The instant he couldn’t scratch, the pain doubled.  Tripled.  Tears scalded his eyes and he shook and spasmed.  ‘It hurts!  _It hurts!_ ’

               Slade enclosed both of Robin’s hands in one of his, and then reached back into his belt and tugged out smooth black handcuffs.

               Robin jerked.  ‘No, _no!_ ’

               ‘It’s for your own good,’ Slade said coolly.  ‘I won’t let you scratch yourself to shreds.’

               Robin thrashed, rolling over and writhing, desperately trying to twist his wrists free.  Cold metal closed around one wrist, and Robin heard the click of it closing with the finality of a gunshot.  He screamed, burning all over, sobbing and stinging and just needing to get it out, dig it out, tear the damn pain out of his body with his bare hands.

               Reaching up, Slade looped the handcuffs around the frame of the headboard, then locked the other cuff on Robin’s wrist.

               He sat back, and then Robin felt his weight lift off the bed, and then he didn’t care.  Pain closed around him like a cage, blazing through his skin.  Trembling, he dragged himself up the bed, curling up just enough to bury his hands back in his hair so he could scrape his nails over his scalp.  He yanked out fistfuls of black hair, sticky with long-expired gel.

               It was a few minutes before Slade came back, and in that time Robin thought he should have burned to ash.

               ‘Enough of that.’  Slade sounded weary, as if Robin’s pain was a minor irritation he couldn’t be bothered with.  Robin didn’t move, except to bury his nails deeper in his scalp.  To focus on that pain.  The lesser pain.

               Snatching Robin’s ankle, Slade dragged him down until Robin was stretched out full length across the bed.  Robin let out a hoarse cry.  His throat felt like sand.

               ‘It’s just a side-effect of the serum,’ Slade said.  ‘It will ease off.  This will make it easier.’

               Something glinted in his hand.  Robin spotted the sharp point of the needle just before Slade plunged it into the crook of his elbow.  He yelped, lashing out at Slade with the heel of his foot—too late.  Slade rose smoothly to his feet, taking the needle with him.

               The room dimmed, and greyed.  _Sedative,_ Robin thought, before his world went mercifully dark.


	12. Hand Gagging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hand Gagging" requested by loyalapprentice on Tumblr.

Robin ached.

               His ribs burned when he inhaled—a pain that grew sharper the deeper he breathed.  His arms hung battered and limp, his legs barely supporting him as he staggered out the elevator and headed for the bathroom.  He stripped off his suit, wincing at the bruises.

               Getting thrown through a wall _hurt_.

               He stood in the shower, shaking, watching brick dust run down his heavy shoulders and swirl down the drain, staining the tub orange.  Sure, Raven healed him up as best she could in the field—enough for him to get on his bike and get back to the Tower.  But he felt like a kid’s toy, ripped to shreds by the family dog.

               By the time he trudged out the bathroom, wrapped in a soft towel and feeling marginally better, he could hear the others coming up the Tower in the elevator.  Forcing himself to straighten, he headed for his room.  He just needed to get dressed, and then he could doze on the sofa while Cyborg and BB played video games.

               He hit the button, head hanging, and when the door swished open he tumbled inside.

               And slammed into the figure in the doorway.

               Robin drew a sharp hiss, which shot through his ribs like knives, before Slade grabbed his arm, twisted him round, and slammed him back into the door as it slid shut.

               He snarled in pain, and Slade’s hand clamped around his mouth.

               ‘Shh, Robin.’  Slade leaned in close, tugging Robin’s arm up so Robin couldn’t help whimpering into Slade’s palm, their bodies pressing together.  ‘We wouldn’t want to worry your friends, would we?’

               He rocked his hips, and Robin stilled, hot shivers racing up his spine.

               ‘You missed me, didn’t you, Robin?’  Slade’s breath traced Robin’s ear.  No cold touch of metal; he’d taken his mask off.  ‘All that time you thought I was dead.  You’ve been _longing_ for me to come back, so I could fuck you … just like before.’  He drew the last three words out as if savouring them; as if _before_ was as tantalising as the scent of a favourite meal.

               Robin trembled, panting hard through his nose.  Yes … he remembered _before_.  Slade peeling him out of that black-and-copper uniform; fingers tightening in the hair at the nape of his neck; a feeling of so much _fullness_ he could cry—

               ‘Yo, Robin!’  Beast Boy’s voice echoed through the doorway.  ‘I got _Super Fighting Bros. 4: The Revengening_!  You ready for the most epic battle of all time?’

               Cold trickled through Robin’s bones.  He writhed against Slade’s weight, but Slade only pressed in tighter.

               ‘Lock the door, Robin,’ Slade murmured.  ‘Unless you want your friends to see you like this.’  He let go of Robin’s arm, and traced his hand— _bare_ hand, warm and calloused—down Robin’s back.

               And yanked off Robin’s towel.

               Robin yelped, and the sound was deadened by Slade’s hand, still pressed to his mouth.

               ‘Lock the door,’ Slade said again, soft and lethal.

               Raising his shaking hand, Robin flicked the switch to lock the door.  It gave a low, heavy thunk as the locks fell into place.

               On the other side of the door, Raven called gently, ‘Leave him alone, Beast Boy.  Robin’s hurt.  He needs to rest.’

               Robin waited, heart thumping, listening as Beast Boy traipsed away.  A moment later, muffled explosions and ‘ _hi-yaahh!_ ’s echoed from the television.  Robin let out a long, slow breath.  They didn’t know.

               ‘Good boy,’ Slade murmured, and this time, his teeth grazed Robin’s ear.  ‘You’re going to stay nice and quiet for me, aren’t you?  Bite that pretty lip while I fuck you.’

               Robin’s knees buckled.  He didn’t drop—couldn’t, pinned between Slade and the door.  But he shook, weak and aching and— _and—_

               When Slade traced his ribs, pain shot through his side and Robin couldn’t restrain the whine.  But the sound didn’t pass Slade’s hand, barely more than a soft, high whisper of noise in Robin’s throat.

               ‘These were broken,’ Slade said.  ‘I’m sure that hurt.’  His hand traced lower, over Robin’s hip, fingers gliding over the dip between Robin’s belly and his thigh.  ‘I saw, you know?  I watched you go through that wall.  If you hadn’t got up, I’d have killed the man that did that to you.  Maybe I still will.’

               Despite the haze filling Robin’s head, and the warmth pooling in his gut, he managed to shake his head.

               Slade laughed, soft as death.  ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t like that.’  His fingers inched lower, into the black hair between Robin’s legs.  ‘So what would you like, Robin?  What do you want me to do right now?  Tell your master.’

               Robin tried to part his lips, and Slade only tightened his grip around Robin’s mouth, fingertips digging into his cheekbones, dragging Robin’s head back against his chest.  Robin forced out a sound, tiny and weak and muted against Slade’s palm.

               Slade’s hand curled around his cock.

               Robin closed his eyes, and the next sound wasn’t forced at all.

               Slade moved in slow, aching strokes, fingers loose at the base and slowly curling tighter as he tugged at Robin’s cock.  Robin curled his toes, breathing hard, pain melting out of his body as his senses narrowed down to the warm throb of blood in his lower body.

               ‘How many times have you fucked yourself, thinking of me?’ Slade said.  When Robin whimpered in reply, he gave a heavy sigh that rumbled in his chest, almost a growl.  ‘I want you spread open under me, Robin.  Just like before.’

               Tears blurred Robin’s vision, sticking in his lashes until he blinked.  Finally, he dipped his chin in a nod.

               Slade’s hands slipped away.  ‘On the bed.  Face down.’

               Trembling, Robin turned.  He brushed the trails of tears from his face, gaze travelling slowly up Slade’s body.  He wore the same black suit as always—no armour—his eyepatch half-hidden under the white hair spilling from his brow.  Slade’s good eye creased as he smirked and stepped aside, then shoved Robin toward the bed.

               The blankets were scrunched at the foot of the bed, one corner of the fitted sheet loose from Robin’s tossing about previous night.  He never had time to make it.  Scooping up a pillow dropped on the floor, Robin slid onto the mattress on his knees— _fuck, his knees hurt, scraped and bruised black_ —then lowered down on trembling arms.

               He’d barely settled his face in the pillow before he felt Slade’s hands on the back of his legs.  They slid down to the crook of his knees, and Slade pushed his legs forward, urging Robin into a kneeling position with an arched back.  Robin moaned as the muscles across his ribs stretched and seared like they were about to snap—then moaned again when Slade ran his palms up the back of his legs, and squeezed Robin’s ass.

               ‘What did I tell you about being quiet?’ Slade murmured.

               Closing his eyes, Robin turned his head and buried it in the pillow.

               Slade’s thumbs smoothed circles over Robin’s ass as he spread Robin’s cheeks wider apart.  ‘Good boy.’

               Robin heard shifting fabric and creaking bed springs, then felt the nudge of something against his ass—and then the warm, wet, delicious glide of Slade’s tongue.  He opened his mouth to scream, barely choked the sound off in his throat, and instead bit down on the pillow.  His own heavy breathing filled his head—that, and the slow, wet lapping sound of Slade’s tongue.  His shoulders shook, hands clenching in the pillow as he _sobbed_ with the effort of not crying out.  And then Slade reached between Robin’s legs and curled his fingers around Robin’s cock and—

               The snarl escaped before he could even _think_ to stop it.  Loud and desperate and almost _pained_.

               Robin hissed, muscles tensing, and Slade lifted his head.  For a moment, the trailing ends of his hair traced Robin’s ass while they waited, silent.

               There was a moment of agonising quiet from the rest of the Tower.

               Then, finally, a trill of music from the television, and Cyborg’s muffled exclamation of triumph.

               Robin let out his breath, sinking into the mattress, limp.  They hadn’t heard.

               For a moment, the room was still.  Then Slade ran his hands down Robin’s sides, his touch feather-soft, almost tickling.

               ‘I told you,’ he murmured, ‘to keep quiet.’

               And he dug his fingers in.

               He didn’t even have to grip hard.  The instant he applied pressure to Robin’s battered ribs, Robin had to bury his face in the pillow to muffle a scream.  Each fingertip was a blade, sliding under his skin, grinding against his bones—

               ‘Quiet, Robin.’  Slade kept his voice low and soft, but there was a thread of danger in each word.

               Robin gasped, gritted his teeth, and swallowed another cry of pain as Slade dug his fingers in deeper.

               ‘Can you stay quiet for me?’  Slade lifted one hand and slipped it down Robin’s body, stroking Robin’s cock before it could grow soft.  ‘Or do you need my hand on your mouth?’

               Drawing a shaky breath, Robin gauged whether he could respond.  Turning his head, he opened his mouth—and Slade twitched his fingers against Robin’s ribs.  A whine escaped Robin before he could stop it, and he pressed his face back into the pillow.  Slade lifted his hand away as Robin wheezed, running his palm up Robin’s spine as if in comfort.

               ‘Well, Robin?’

               Shoulders trembling, Robin raised his head just enough to nod.  What was he even agreeing to?  Did it matter?  He ached, and he also—well, _ached_ —and between the pain and the heat he could barely breathe, let alone think.

               Slade let out a low, pleased hum behind him.  Robin heard shifting fabric, the click of a buckle and the soft rip of a condom packet.  His legs shook, and he bowed his back further, angling his ass up.  Slade’s fingers smoothed over his ass—then Robin heard the pop of a lid opening.  He shivered at the cool, wet drizzle of lube over his skin.

               Slade’s leg pressed up against the back of Robin’s thigh.  Curling his fists in the pillow, Robin drew a slow breath, trying to relax as he felt the blunt end of Slade’s cock press against him—and then inside—

               He hissed, shifted, and then jolted as Slade leaned down.  He was big enough to crawl over Robin’s body entirely, enclosing him in a human cage.  His arm slipped up Robin’s body, fingers gliding over his shoulder and throat, before Slade pressed his hand over Robin’s mouth.

               ‘Scream all you want, then,’ Slade whispered, his breath hot on the back of Robin’s neck.  ‘Your friends won’t hear.’

               And then, with a roll of his hips, Slade buried himself fully in Robin’s ass.

               Robin whined, and the sound couldn’t pass Slade’s hand.  Slade thrust again—again—each rocking motion somehow feeling deeper than the last.  And fuck, _fuck_ , Robin had thought he remembered how it felt to be so full, but he was wrong.  Memories couldn’t summon up this feeling.  The dizziness; the sweat and trembling; the delicious, sated ache deep in his body.  He moaned and writhed, desperately twisting his spine to give Slade a deeper angle.

               He forgot all about _quiet_.  Forgot _everything_ , except the warmth of Slade’s body around him and the glide of Slade’s cock inside him, growing faster now, the thrusts sharper and heavier.  And then Slade slammed into him, and hit something that sent sparks firing under Robin’s closed eyelids, and he _screamed_.  Slade’s hand clamped down over his mouth, so tight it hurt.  Another roll of Slade’s hips, and another, and Robin sobbed, his head spinning.

               ‘Are you ready to come for me, Robin?’  Slade didn’t so much ask as gloat, panting on every other word.

               Robin whined and arched his back until it burned, legs shaking as he lifted his knees to get higher, to feel Slade’s cock deeper.

               ‘Just can’t keep quiet, can you?’  A soft laugh.  Slade slipped the hand not covering Robin’s mouth down his body, resting his palm on Robin’s hip.  ‘Make another sound like that for me and maybe I’ll let you come.’

               Another sharp thrust, and the second whine slipped out of Robin as naturally as breathing.  Tears slid, sticky and desperate, down his cheeks.  _Please,_ he wanted to say, unable to shift his lips under Slade’s hand.  _Please, please, please._

               Slade took Robin’s cock, fingers curling tight, and moved his hand in sharp tugs.  No longer teasing, he stroked in time with his thrusts.  Between the blood pounding in his cock and the tightness of Slade fucking his ass, Robin’s world blurred.  The room whipped around him like a carousel, and he gasped and writhed and trembled, and then—

               Came apart.

               He was so lost, spinning in a sweet, dark void, it was a while before he realised Slade was still fucking him.  Robin whimpered and shifted, the sensation no longer warm and delicious but burning—too full—too much.  He got his hands under him and tried to wriggle up.

               Slade slammed a hand down between his shoulders, shoving Robin back down.  Robin yelped, the sound muted between Slade’s hand and the pillow, and Slade grabbed his hip and tugged it up, fucking into him harder, faster, ignoring Robin’s cries of shock against his palm—too much— _too much—_

               Slade came with a snarl, crushing Robin beneath him.

               For a while, Robin kept still, shaking, drenched in sweat.

               Then, slowly, Slade drew his hand away from Robin’s mouth, and shifted back.  Robin hissed as Slade drew out of him.  He summoned the energy to turn over—to snarl at Slade for hurting him—but found none.  Robin flopped onto the mattress, weak and aching.

               He closed his eyes and listened to Slade moving around the room.  A moment later, fingers twisted in Robin’s hair—not tugging, but just tight enough to suggest he could.

               ‘Rest up, Robin.  Next time, I want you at peak form.’

               Slade’s fingers tightened for just an instant, and then slipped away.  Robin closed his eyes, and didn’t bother to check how Slade slipped out of the Tower undetected.  He dropped into the pillow and slept.


	13. Poison/Venom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Poison/Venom", requested by weirdo-fangirl-dragonchild666 on Tumblr!

He shouldn’t chase Slade alone.

               Robin knew that.  He knew it was dangerous, and stupid, and that chasing Slade alone before had ended with him in a black-and-copper uniform, listening to Slade whisper in his ear.  He knew it was a bad idea.

               So when he saw Slade—just a glimpse of him, at the corner of that alley on High West—Robin hesitated for just a second.  Just long enough for Slade to melt into the shadows.

               And Robin pelted down the alley.

               Slade raced ahead, slipping around a corner.  It wasn’t far.  Robin put on a burst of speed.  He could catch him.  He could catch Slade.  The Titans were just behind him.  They’d catch up—of course they’d catch up.  He’d hear them, any second now, charging into the alley.

               He didn’t hear any footsteps behind him.  Just Slade’s steady pace up ahead.

               Didn’t matter.  Gasping a breath, Robin forced his legs to pump faster.  If he let Slade get away, Slade would do … _whatever_ it was he was planning, and whatever he was planning would be horrifying, and Robin would be up all night, pacing and grinding his teeth and _hating_ himself for letting Slade get away right now, right this second, when he was so close …

               Slade whipped around so fast Robin almost careened into him, his boots skidding on the concrete.  He ducked as Slade punched; then as Robin straightened, he snapped a kick into Slade’s ribs.  Slade grunted, but didn’t go down.  Robin tried to slip past him—to get a shot into Slade’s back—but something tightened around his throat and he choked.

               _Cape._

               Slade tightened his fist in the fabric, and yanked it back hard enough for Robin to splutter—and topple backwards.

               His back thudded on the ground, and it felt like a mallet to the ribs.  Robin wheezed, knives tearing into his lungs.

Slade’s shadow fell over him.  He scrambled back.  Flipping onto his front, lungs burning, Robin got his feet under him—

               Slade’s foot slammed between his shoulders, and Robin crumpled.  His head smacked into the ground, and his vision exploded into stars and crackles.  The ground tipped, one way then another, like the boats in Jump harbour rolling on choppy waves.  He scraped his hands over the gritty concrete.  _Get up.  Get up!_

               Weight settled on his lower back.  Robin snarled, head pounding, and reached back to beat his fists against Slade’s legs.  Slade shifted, and suddenly Robin’s cloak tightened around his neck again—choking—

               He heard a click above him, and then the heavy thud of Slade setting his mask on the ground by Robin’s shoulder.  Robin tried to twist—to reach out and grab that heavy mask.  It was heavy.  Hard.  He could swing it back.  Crack it into Slade’s exposed face.  His fingers scrabbled on the ground.  Closer—just a little closer—

               Teeth clamped on his throat.

               Robin screamed, his hand falling limp.  The pain was crushing; he couldn’t breathe; couldn’t _think._   Slade caught Robin’s wrists and drew his arms back, and bit down harder.  Robin thrashed, snarling.  His skin was tearing.  Bruising.  Ripping.  It had to be.  How else could it hurt like this?  Heat and wet trickled over his collar.  Saliva?  Blood?

               He bucked his hips.  He had to get him off.  Throw him off.  Somehow.   ‘Slade, stop, _stop_!’  His voice cracked, and he hated it, but it hurt and he couldn’t stop.  ‘I’m already down, _stop!_ ’

               Slade’s response was a low, rumbling sound like the growl of a wild animal.  It vibrated into Robin’s throat, burning through the bite like pouring saltwater into an open wound.  Robin kicked, but that only jostled Slade’s mouth and his teeth cut in deeper, sinking into already-torn flesh.  Robin sobbed, and fell still.

               Finally, _finally_ , Slade loosened his jaw.

               Robin whimpered, tears burning his eyes as his collar fell back into place, and a fresh, sharp sting bit into his skin.  Slade’s weight lifted off his back.

               Gasping, Robin shot to his feet.  He turned to face Slade, hands already curled into fists.  He backed up until he hit a wall.

               But Slade didn’t approach again.  Leaving his mask on the ground, he pushed a hand back through the white hair now tumbling loose over his forehead.  His face was flushed, and his single eye gleamed as it fixed on Robin.

               Robin’s heart clenched.  Gingerly, he brought a hand up to his throbbing neck.  The collar of his cloak now covered the bite, but wetness was spreading through the fabric, leaving a darker stain on the black.  He curled his lip, and let his hand fall away.

               Where were the Titans?  Where were his friends?

               His head felt swollen and soft.  The ground wobbled underneath him.  He tried to push off the wall and couldn’t.  Too heavy.  Too weak.

               _What the hell?_

               The bite hurt, but pain was nothing.  _Push it away.  Focus._ He fumbled at his belt.  Bo staff.  Where was his bo staff?

               ‘Put your hand down, Robin.’

               Robin lowered his hand.

               His heart thumped.

               He tried to lift his hand.  His arm trembled—and didn’t rise.  He stared down at it.  _Move.  Come on, move!_ Nothing.  His eyes flicked up to meet Slade’s gaze, and his mouth went dry.  Slade was … _smiling_.

               ‘Come here, Robin.’  Slade lifted one hand, beckoning lazily.

               Robin’s legs jerked into life.  He gritted his teeth, tensing his muscles, aching to stop.  But his feet propelled him forward, only coming to a halt when he stood close enough to smell Slade’s sweat.

               ‘What the hell is going on?’  He ground the words out between gritted teeth.

               Slade’s smile spread into a grin as sharp as the cut of his teeth.  His lips were wet and red.  Lifting one hand, he wiped his lips.  Blood smeared through his beard.  ‘Are you familiar with Poison Ivy’s venom?’

               Robin’s heart dropped like a lead ball.  As if Slade didn’t know.  As if he hadn’t read through the old newspaper articles, archived online for everyone to see.  _BOY WONDER PUTS FLORAL FEMME FATALE BEHIND BARS AGAIN!_

               Slade knew.  Slade always knew.

               Giving a one-shouldered shrug, Slade reached out and traced his fingers down the side of Robin’s face.  ‘Ivy owed me a favour.’  He tapped his own lips with one finger.  ‘A weaker dose, of course—I’m not immune—but it still works, as long as it gets straight into your bloodstream.’  He let his hand trace lower, slipping over Robin’s neck and pressing into the bite.  Robin flinched back with a hiss, unable to move his feet, and Slade snatched a fistful of Robin’s cloak.  ‘Don’t pull away from me, Robin.’

               The demand settled somewhere in Robin’s chest, heavy as stone.  ‘Let me go.’

               ‘Oh no.’  Slade’s eye narrowed.  ‘You’re going to do what I want.  Whatever I want.  For a start—’ his smile twitched, ‘—get on your knees.’

               Robin hissed.  ‘No—’

               But he was already down.  His knees thudded on the concrete, and no matter how he strained he couldn’t get up.  His legs shook and he bared his teeth and snarled, but—nothing.  His breathing shallowed as Slade took a half-step back.  Robin snarled.  Of course.  Of course Slade would want him to kneel.  Sadistic bastard—

               Slade reached for his belt.

               Robin’s heart thundered and his throat tightened like his was being strangled again.

_No.  No, no, no._

               He wouldn’t.  He _wouldn’t_.  This wasn’t—it couldn’t be—it wasn’t what it looked like—

               Slade’s belt loosened with a click, and dropped to the ground.  ‘I’m going to enjoy this, Robin.’

               ‘Don’t,’ Robin breathed.  ‘Slade, don’t, _please_.  I’ll do whatever you want.  I won’t even fight you.  Please, _please_ don’t—don’t make me—’  He couldn’t talk.  His throat was too tight.  But Slade paused, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his uniform, and Robin gulped and forced the words out—barely a croak.  ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’

               Slade tilted his head, the smirk now lifting only one side of his mouth.  ‘ _This_ is what I want.  Open your mouth.’

               Robin’s lips parted before he could think to resist.  He tried to pull back, and couldn’t.  Slade already told him not to.  His stomach tightened, limbs trembling.  Slade slipped his trousers down, just enough to draw his cock out—and _no, god, fuck, no_.

               He was half-hard already; curling one hand at the base of his cock, Slade tugged slowly, as if savouring it.  With his other hand, he reached down and slipped his thumb into Robin’s mouth.

               ‘Tongue out, Robin.’

               Robin shuddered, and his tongue slipped out over his lips.

               Letting out a low, soft noise of approval, Slade stroked the pad of his thumb over Robin’s tongue.  His leather glove tasted bitter, and smelled of gun smoke.  ‘Don’t bite,’ Slade said softly, and the command went down Robin’s spine like an iron rod.  ‘And keep your hands by your sides.’

               He stepped in close, and Robin’s stomach somersaulted.  Slade’s cock brushed over his tongue, and then his lips, and then it was in his mouth and—

               Robin closed his eyes and clenched his fists and tried and _tried_ not to sob.

               Slade pressed in deeper and deeper, and just as he brushed the back of Robin’s tongue he slowed, and murmured, ‘Suck, Robin.’

               _Nononononono—_

               Robin’s lips closed and he sucked.

               _It’s not real.  It’s not happening.  It’s not it’s not it’s not—_

               ‘Mouth open, Robin … that’s it … good boy …’

               He tried to block Slade’s voice out.  To ignore it.  But each word thudded into him like a bullet hitting home, and he _couldn’t_.  When Robin dared open his eyes all he saw was the black of Slade’s uniform and a white patch of hair, and he slammed them closed again and just tried to breathe, breathe, _breathe—_

               Slade rocked his hips faster.  His balls slapped into Robin’s chin, and Robin’s stomach heaved but he couldn’t pull away and couldn’t stop, and now his mouth seemed to be working even without Slade’s direction, opening and sucking in rhythm.  Wetness gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Robin couldn’t reach up to brush it away.  The tears ran, sticky, down his face.

               ‘Move your head, Robin … suck hard now …’  Slade grunted, his fingers sliding through Robin’s hair.  His cock slid deeper into Robin’s mouth, brushing the back of his throat, and Robin stiffened.  ‘Relax, Robin, that’s it … let me in …’

               Robin sucked in a breath just before Slade’s dick slipped past the back of his tongue and _down_.

               His hands shook, nails digging into his palms even through his gloves.  Tears filled his eyes, and as Slade rocked his hips Robin’s chest ached.  _Can’t breathe._   But Slade didn’t stop.  Robin’s head spun.  He blinked, and sparks crackled in eyes.  _Can’t breathe.  Can’t breathe._   He was trembling.  He was going to pass out.

               ‘Do you want me to come on your face, Robin?’

               Robin tried to respond—tried to scream, ‘ _NO!_ ’—and couldn’t.  He couldn’t pull back.  Couldn’t breathe.  He tried to force out a sound, and spluttered.  Finally desperately, he managed to shake his head—a movement so minute he doubted Slade could read it

               Slade finally pulled back, and his cock slipped out of Robin’s mouth.  Robin bent double, choking and gasping.  Hooking a hand under Robin’s chin, Slade lifted his face.  His other hand was curled around his cock again, stroking fast now.  His single eye was dark; hooded.  ‘Tell me you do.’

               Stomach tightening, Robin bit down on his tongue.  No.  No, he wouldn’t.  He _wouldn’t—_

               ‘I want you to come on my face.’

               The words came out as a croak, low and pained and stomach-turning.  Stop, _stop,_  he just wanted to _stop—_

               Slade let out a tiny, choked sigh, and Robin barely closed his eyes before wet heat sprayed over his face.  He waited, trembling, trying to breathe and not to sob, because if he sobbed he’d open his mouth and if he opened his mouth—

               The moment Slade released his chin, Robin dropped his face, wiping his hands frantically over his mouth and eyes.  He scooped up great handfuls of his cloak and buried his face in it.  _Get it off, get it OFF!_

               ‘Stand up, Robin.’

               He didn’t bother trying to resist.  Just rocked to his feet, head bowed, hands still fisted in his cloak.  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ Robin growled.  He forced himself to look up—to ignore the stickiness in his eyelashes; the wetness drying on his cheeks.  ‘The venom will wear off, and when it does—’

               ‘I’ll give you another dose,’ Slade said levelly, re-buckling his belt.  ‘And another, and another.’  Reaching out, he traced again over the bite on Robin’s neck.  Robin hissed—but couldn’t pull away.  ‘Just imagine your skin, scarred all over from my teeth …’

               Robin shuddered.  His stomach somersaulted—his was going to be sick—

               Slade cupped his cheek, almost comforting.  ‘Don’t worry, Robin.  You’ll be doing whatever I want for a long, long time.’


	14. Broken Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Broken Angel", requested by freakedelic on Tumblr.

Some angel Robin made.  He wasn’t even glowing.

               He didn’t lift his head as the next crowed approached.  Robin kept his wings tucked in tight, warming his bare back, although the cage was spacious enough to stretch his wings.  He closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the crowd’s fascinated chatter.

               ‘A genuine angel, fallen from Heaven!’ the ringmaster boomed in his familiar, overdramatic tone.  ‘This one was a warrior.  We had a job wrestling him in that cage, I can tell you.’

               Robin snorted.  They’d caught him lost and alone.  They’d offered him food and wine.  And Robin had forgotten that humans were tricksters.

Until he saw the cage.  And by then …

               ‘Look at those wings.’  The ringmaster drummed his knuckles against the bars.

               Robin flinched at the loud, metallic clang.  Taking a breath, he heaved up to his feet, and unfurled his wings.

               They were heavier every time.  The white feathers felt greasy now, like his hair, and a few he hadn’t bothered to prune stuck up on the left.  But the crowd still gasped and ahh-ed.  All but one.

               Robin’s foggy gaze slipped over their faces, and came to rest on one man, standing at the far edge, as if to avoid brushing shoulders with the others.  His face was hard, his single eye narrowed—the other was hidden beneath a black patch.  His nose wrinkled, as if he alone could smell Robin’s unwashed skin.

               ‘Naturally,’ the ringmaster was saying, ‘we don’t have him perform in our live shows.  Much too dangerous.’

               The one-eyed man flashed a sharp look at the ringmaster.

               ‘And now, if you’ll come this way—’ the ringmaster stepped back, gesturing to the cage beside Robin’s, ‘—from Heaven to the fires of Hell.  Behold, the manticore!’

               Letting his wings drop, Robin folded his legs under him and curled back up on the floor.  The straw littering his cage scratched his skin, and thrust the stench of mould up his nose.  Closing his eyes, Robin tried to ignore it.  The manticore grumbled in the cage next door, shifting restlessly as the crowd peered in through its bars.  Robin’s head thumped.  His bones ached.  He needed to sleep, but he hadn’t managed it yet.  Humans did it every night, somehow.  Maybe angels couldn’t.  Even fallen angels.

               The mumbles and gasps of the crowd grew quieter as the ringmaster shepherded them down the line of cages, and finally into the tent of the circus proper.  A minute later, music blared, and then Robin heard the ringmaster’s voice again—blaring through a megaphone, the words indistinct.  Wrapping his wings around himself, Robin tucked an arm under his head as the show continued.  Hours later, he heard the chatter of people as the gawking crowd left.

               Last show of the day.  He could rest until morning.

               The voices were just part of the babble at first, drawing nearer while everyone else moved away.  Robin recognised the ringmaster, and winced.

               ‘—tell you, he’s not for sale, Slade.’

               ‘How long can you keep up this charade?’  The second voice was low, and rich as velvet.  ‘For god’s sake, the mermaid got a better reaction, and we both know that tail was fake.’

               Robin didn’t look up, but he couldn’t help smirking.  Not often someone from the crowd was smart enough to spot the fakes from the real deal—or brave enough to say so to the ringmaster’s face.

               The ringmaster spluttered.  ‘I’ll have you know all our exhibits are one hundred per cent genuine—’

               ‘One hundred per cent genuine bullshit.’  A pause, just long enough for Robin to realise their footsteps were drawing closer to his cage—to him.  ‘You know he’s dying in there?’

               The ringmaster snorted.  ‘Preposterous—’

               ‘How long since he stopped glowing?  I’m sure that was a problem for you.  He looks a lot less believable without the angelic glow.’

               Robin finally lifted his head.  Him?  Why were they talking about him?

               Curling his legs under him, he turned and peered through the bars.  The sun sat low on the horizon, sending beams of orange light flashing between long, purple shadows.  The ringmaster was scowling as he approached the cage.  And with him—

               The one-eyed man.

               ‘I give him a few days,’ the one-eyed man—Slade—said.  ‘A week at a stretch.  What good to you is a dead angel?’  They reached the cage and the one-eyed man leaned against the bars, arms folded.

               Tucking his feet under him, Robin pushed himself up.

               His legs buckled.

               He dropped, and caught himself with an arm and one flared wing.  Head spinning, he tried to breathe, but the air on Earth was so thin filling his lungs was like trying to fill a sieve with sand.  The ringmaster narrowed his eyes and grunted, and Robin realised he’d probably just Slade’s point.

               ‘You’ll be well compensated,’ Slade said, after the quiet had gone on long enough to make Robin’s chest ache.

               The ringmaster sighed.  ‘I’d better be.  Although I don’t know what use you’ll have for a dead angel, either.’

               Slade smiled, thin as a razorblade.  ‘Just let him out.’

               Robin sat, blinking and dizzy.  He must have fallen asleep after all.  This must be what dreaming felt like.  Hazy and unreal and impossible.  Out?  Him?  Out of the cage?  No.  He was never getting out—never—

               And yet, there was the ringmaster, pulling a key from his pocket and heading to the cage door.  ‘D’you have something to hold him?’

               Slade huffed.  ‘Hold him?  Look at him.  He can barely stand.’

               Shrugging, the ringmaster slipped the key in the lock.  Robin listened to the metallic clicking, and then the low, heavy thunk of the lock coming open.

               He bolted to his feet, and lunged.

               Freedom.

               He was going to be free.  And once he was free, he could fly.  And once he could fly, he would find some way—any way—to be forgiven, and leave Earth, and never return.  Heaven.  Home.  Right there, as close to him now as the bars on his cage.

               Barrelling through the door, he shoved the ringmaster aside, spread his wings, and beat down in one great, powerful motion—

               Fog rolled across his vision.  He wasn’t flying—he was falling.  Falling, and aching, and brittle as dry leaves.

               Slade was there faster than Robin could think, sweeping Robin’s arm up and over his shoulders, and then lifting his legs.

               Robin blinked, the world spinning around him.  He couldn’t … he couldn’t fly.  Why couldn’t he fly?

_You know he’s dying in there._

               This one-eyed man—this _Slade_ —was right.  Robin was weak.  Dying.

               On Earth, even angels were mortal.

               Robin’s head fell against Slade’s shoulder, his wings trailing over Slade’s arm.  ‘I’ll forward you the money.’  Slade’s throat vibrated against Robin’s forehead as he spoke.  And then he was saying something else, except Robin didn’t catch it, because the fog rolled in a second time, and Robin smiled as he realised he was wrong—angels could sleep after all.


	15. Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Blackmail" for skeletoncloset, poppyrous and weirdo-fangirl-dragonchild666 on Tumblr.

When Robin’s communicator beeped— _only_ Robin’s communicator—his heart dropped into his stomach.  Because who would ever _only_ call him?  Batman?  Alfred?  Something was wrong.  It had to be.

               Reaching for his communicator, he stretched out his other hand to switch off the treadmill.  The belt rumbled as it slowed under his feet.  Panting, Robin flipped the communicator open.  He tapped on the message, and at the same time grabbed his water bottle and took a swig.

               Which turned out to be a mistake, as an image of him, utterly naked, flashed up on the communicator screen.

               Robin choked, stumbled on the still-moving treadmill belt, and smacked his head on the control panel.

               Legs buckling, he tumbled off the side of the treadmill and slammed into the floor on his back.  In the corner, Cyborg looked up from where he was lying back on the weights bench, an impossibly heavy bar bell raised over his head.  Beast Boy, supposedly spotting Cyborg but actually watching cat videos on his communicator, looked up with a sympathetic wince.

               ‘I’m fine!’ Robin gasped, Cyborg could come over.  He rolled over, snatched up his communicator, and snapped it shut.

               Cyborg set down the bar bell with a heavy metallic clang.  ‘You sure, man?  I think I heard your skull crack.’

               Robin staggered to his feet, crushing his communicator in his fist.  ‘Yeah.  Yeah, I’m fine.  It’s fine.  I’m just.’  Blood pounded in his temple; he pressed a hand to it with a grimace.  ‘I’m just gonna go lie down.’

               ‘Uh-huh.’  Cyborg somehow manage to arch an eyebrow he didn’t have, sharing a suspicious glance with Beast Boy.

               Ignoring them, Robin rushed out of the gym and down the corridor.  Starfire had dragged Raven out on some shopping trip, so the rest of the Tower was empty and quiet—but Robin still glanced up and down the corridor before reopening the communicator.

               Blood rushed into his face, burning-hot.  The photo was undoubtedly him.  He was lying in bed—in _his_ bed, here in the Tower—the blankets coiled around one leg, and his head thrown back against the pillows.  His eyes were closed, his lips parted …

               And his hand curled around his cock.

               He stared, hand shaking around the communicator.  Who?  _How?_   Cyborg updated the Tower firewalls practically every week.  How could anyone sneak a photo of him—of him—

               The communicator beeped again, and Robin almost hit the ceiling.

               Hissing through gritted teeth, Robin clicked the button to open the new message.

 

               _I think it’s a good portrait of you, Robin.  – S_

 

               Robin swallowed.  _S_.  A wave of heat crashed through his body.  For a moment, his thumbs hovered over the buttons.  Then he typed out one word.

 

               _Slade?_

 

               The response came in seconds.

 

               _Who else?_

 

               Robin stared. _No._

_No, no, no._

               How?  How had Slade snuck a camera into the Tower, let alone Robin’s own _bedroom_?  The shot was angled from above; Robin looked up now, scanning the empty ceiling for a small, robotic shape.

               Nothing.

               Another message flashed up on the screen.

 

_That was only a screenshot, Robin. Would you like to watch a clip?_

 

               He didn’t get a chance to respond.  The video pinged through a moment later, and Robin’s numb fingers hit play before he could stop to think.

               It was the same shot, watching him from overhead.  Except it was worse, because now he was moving, sliding his own hands down his body to squeeze his half-hard cock.  In the video, Robin hummed, raised his hips and stroked with one hand, while the other traced back up his body and flicked over his nipple.

               Holding the communicator, Robin went cold.   _Shit. Shit, no._  He remembered this. _No, no, no, no, fuck—_

               The Robin in the video closed his eyes, rocking his hips against his hand.  And then he turned his face half into the pillow, drew a long breath, and sighed, ‘ _Slade …_ ’

               Robin snapped the communicator shut.  ‘Shit.’  He closed his fist around the communicator, hand trembling, chest aching.  Then he realised he wasn’t breathing, and took a huge, shaky gasp.  ‘Shit, shit, _shit_.’

               It was a just a fantasy.  A stupid fucking fantasy.  No one was supposed to hear.  No one was supposed to _know—_

               The ring of his communicator went through his aching head like a spear.  Not a message this time—a call.  He stared at it, stomach tight, heart pounding.  Finally, inevitably, he flicked it open.

               ‘Slade?’  The word came out as a croak, his throat dry as sand.

               On the screen, Slade’s single eye narrowed as he smiled behind his mask.  ‘Did you enjoy the video?  I must say, I’m flattered, Robin.’

               ‘Shut up!’  Robin glanced behind him, but Cyborg and Beast Boy hadn’t left the gym, and the Tower remained quiet.

               ‘You don’t like it?’  Slade tilted his head.  ‘Shame.  I can think of plenty of people who would.  Some of your adoring fans might appreciate seeing your more … intimate moments.  Or I could always send it straight to Wayne Enterprises.’

               Robin went cold.  ‘No.’

               Slade knew.  He knew about Wayne Enterprises, which meant he knew about Bruce, which meant he knew about—

               ‘Of course,’ Slade continued, as if he’d never been interrupted, ‘I could be persuaded to keep this private.’

               Robin hissed.  ‘What do you want?’

               He couldn’t see it, but he _knew_ Slade’s smile grew wider.  ‘Well, Robin … that is the question.’  Slade stared up from the communicator screen, silent for so long Robin thought he wasn’t going to answer.  Then, finally— ‘Go to your room and lock the door.’

               Swallowing, Robin nodded and hurried through the Tower.

               He could barely breathe around the lump in his throat.  Fuck, fuck, _fuck._   What could he _do_?  If Slade released that video …

               Sure, it was a crime.  Slade would be in trouble—Robin snorted—as if being ‘in trouble’ had ever bothered Slade.  And Slade would never be caught, because he never was.  And in the meantime, that video could— _would_ —make it across the Internet.  Across the _world_.  And as if the shame wasn’t enough to make Robin sick, what if people recognised his _face_?  What if they connected Robin with Dick Grayson, and Dick Grayson with Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne with—

               His chest tightened.

_Dad._

               He couldn’t do it.  He _wouldn’t_.  He wouldn’t let it happen.  Whatever godawful job Slade had for him, he’d do it, and then he’d find a way to get hold of that recording and destroy it.

               Hitting the switch for his bedroom, he stepped in the moment the door swished open, then locked it the instant it shut behind him.  Drawing a breath, he tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling.  Empty.  If Slade’s camera was still there, he couldn’t see it.

               Robin lifted the communicator.  ‘Now what?’

               ‘Take off your mask.’

               Robin narrowed his eyes.  ‘No way—’

               ‘I’ve already _seen_ your face, Robin.’  Slade’s voice was smooth and even.  ‘Take it off.’

               Grinding his teeth, Robin reached up, and peeled the mask away.  He dropped it on the carpet.  ‘Happy?’

               Slade laughed, soft and breathy.  ‘Of course.  Now put the communicator on your desk, and sit down.’

               Crossing the room on stiff legs, Robin thumped down in his chair and set the communicator on the table, screen facing towards him.

               ‘Push your chair back, Robin.  I want to see you properly.’

               Robin scowled.  ‘What, no more hidden cameras?’  But he shoved his chair back regardless.

               ‘Do you think I’d tell you if there were?’  The angle on Slade’s camera shifted; Robin got the impression he was also sitting down.  ‘Take off your belt.’

               Robin’s heart thumped.  ‘What?’

               ‘Your belt.’  Slade drew each word out, slow and precise.  ‘Take it off.’

               Robin didn’t move.  ‘Why?’

               ‘Because otherwise, I will put that video online for the world to see.’  Slade’s voice turned cold.  ‘Do it, Robin.’

               His hands didn’t feel like his own.  Robin reached for the clasp on the belt; fumbled; finally unbuckled it.  It slid off his hips, snakelike, and thudded to the floor.

               ‘Now,’ Slade’s voice was whisper-soft, ‘hands on your knees.’

               Robin set his hands on his knees, trembling.  His stomach coiled, and a voice in his head screamed, _Wrong, WRONG!_   But his feet were pinned in place, and he couldn’t lift himself out of the chair.

               ‘Bring your hands up your legs, Robin,’ Slade said.  ‘Slowly.  Knees apart.’

               Robin’s fingers tightened on his knees.  ‘No.’

               ‘ _Yes_ , Robin.  I want to watch you.’

               ‘You already have.’  Each word felt like forcing razors up his throat.

               ‘I want to watch you do it for me.  Just for me.’  Slade shifted; leaning back in his seat.  ‘I want you to look into the camera when you moan my name.’

               Robin jerked, and would have leaped to his feet if not for—

               If not for the blood pooling between his legs.

               Facing burning, he gripped his knees in both hands.  ‘You’re blackmailing me … to get more blackmail material?’

               ‘You’re overthinking it, Robin.’  Slade’s voice was soft again, almost comforting.  ‘I liked what I saw, and I want to see more.  Imagine I’m there.  Imagine it’s me running my hands up your legs.  I know you like it.  Touch yourself.  Touch yourself for me.’

               He didn’t say ‘ _or else_ ’, but Robin heard.  And finally, achingly, Robin dragged his hands backwards up his legs, fingers stiff and shaking.  He couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t—he _couldn’t—_

               ‘That’s it, Robin.  Push up your shirt.  Let me see you.’

               Closing his eyes, Robin swallowed and shoved his shirt up, hands brushing over his stomach—his chest.  In bed, on his own, it felt so natural.  Just something he did, like showering and brushing his teeth.  Now, every movement was stiff.  He felt like he was standing on a cliff edge, toes already hanging over the empty air, and so close to falling.

               ‘Relax,’ Slade breathed.  ‘Just pretend it’s my hands on you, Robin.  Pretend, like you did before.’

               Something caught in Robin’s throat, and with a surge of heat he realised he wanted to _moan_.  It was Slade’s voice—the way he let each word roll deliciously off his tongue, as though he was savouring every syllable.  Robin bit his lip, and without Slade’s prompting, flicked his thumbs over his nipples.  He tipped his head back, biting down on another moan at the spark-like tingles that shot over his skin.  He imagined Slade’s hands, tracing his chest.  Slade’s mouth, closing over a nipple and sucking, licking, _biting—_

               He pinched a nipple, hard, and whined at the sweet, sharp sensation.  Was that how teeth would feel?  Panting, he did it again, shivers racing down his spine.

               ‘Yes, Robin.’  Slade sounded breathy, lower even than usual, and with a rush of heat Dick realised he might _also_ be touching himself, somewhere below the view of the camera.  ‘Show me what you want me to do to you.’

               Closing his teeth on his tongue, Robin slipped one hand down his body and into his pants.  For all his effort, he couldn’t restrain the automatic, ‘Hnng!’ as his fingers closed around his cock.

               ‘Pants down, Robin,’ Slade murmured.  ‘I want to see.’

               Robin wriggled, lifting his hips enough to shift his leggings down.  And—fuck—he was embarrassingly hard, throbbing painfully.  Sweat trickled down his back, and his face was scalding, and he moved his hand around his cock and _groaned_.

               ‘Good boy,’ Slade growled.  ‘What are you imagining?  Tell me.’

               Robin’s head spun.  ‘Your—your hands on me.’

               ‘And?’

               But he couldn’t form words.  Couldn’t think.  Blood pounded in his cock and he ached and the room was spinning.  And it was all he could do to keep his hand moving, and Slade—Slade was _watching him—_

               Slade didn’t seem offended.  Instead, he took over, murmuring so low it all sounded like a threat.  ‘I will have every inch of you, Robin.  I will taste your skin, and press you beneath me, and watch you writhe while I fuck you.’

               Robin whined as the pressure built in his cock, his hand moving faster as he climbed higher.

               ‘My name, Robin,’ Slade said.  ‘Look at me.  I want to hear my name.’

               ‘Slade,’ Robin breathed, ignoring the knot in his stomach.  He was so close.  Not just on the edge of a cliff anymore but teetering over, longing to fall.  ‘Slade, Slade, _Slade_ —’

               His eyes flashed open as the tension through his body snapped all at once.

               He managed, just, to fix his gaze on the communicator, his vision hazy and unfocused.  He wasn’t sure if he was moaning Slade’s name anymore, or just moaning, but either way he was tumbling, wind roaring in his ears, and he felt breathless and alive—

               He slumped.  Tipped his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.  His hand was wet, and his legs ached, and distantly he recognised the ongoing _thump, thump, thump_ in his head where he’d bashed it on the treadmill.

               ‘Very good, Robin.  You are … perfect.’

               Robin blinked and lifted his head.  Slade’s expression was impossible to read, and Robin didn’t try to answer.

               ‘Next time,’ Slade promised, ‘I will have my hands on you.’

               The screen flashed, and went black.

               Robin sat staring at the blank communicator for far too long.

_Next time._

               Next time, he’d hear Slade’s voice up against his own skin, rather than through a tinny speaker.  He’d feel Slade’s hands tracing his bare skin.  He’d feel the weight of Slade’s body pressing against him.

               He shivered.

_Next time._


	16. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Interrogation", requested by weirdo-fangirl-dragonchild666 and poppyrous on Tumblr.

Robin should have known better than to answer his communicator halfway through a grapple swing.  It was distracting, and it put him off-balance, and it usually ended in him smacking into a wall or tumbling across a rooftop.  He _knew better_.

               So when he flicked the communicator open, and the image of him flashed up on the screen, sat in his desk chair with his shirt shoved up to his armpits and his hand around his cock, he almost deserved it.

               Robin yelped, and narrowly avoided crashing through a window.  Instead, he slammed into the concrete wall _next_ to the window.  Pain shot through his ribs, and then his shoulder wrenched as he fell two feet, and stopped dead, dangling by one hand.  Groaning, he clipped the communicator back to his belt, clasped the grapple in both hands, and hit the retract button.  It dragged him up the office building, and he tried to ignore the way people inside looked up from their computers, frowning at first, and then grinning as they recognised him.

               He finally scrambled up onto the roof, and allowed himself a couple of minutes to gasp for breath, crouching on the concrete.  Shaking himself, Robin flipped open his communicator.  He winced at the picture—his face was flushed, his mouth was open and his eyes closed, face tilted back in bliss.

               The communicator rang before he could close the picture.  Gritting his teeth, Robin answered.  ‘You nearly killed me.’

               Slade stared up at him from the screen, his single eye serene.  ‘You shouldn’t answer your communicator in mid-air.’

               Robin spluttered, jerking to his feet and staring across the buildings.  Slade _saw_ that?  ‘Where—?’

               ‘I enjoyed our last little talk, Robin,’ Slade said, as though Robin hadn’t spoken.  ‘It would be a shame if it were our last.’

               It was expected, but Robin still felt a thrill race up through his skin.  He ground his teeth, trying to fight it.  ‘You gonna threaten to post _that_ picture online, too?’

               Slade’s eye narrowed.  ‘Do I need to?’

               For a moment, Robin couldn’t move.  Blood pulsed in his ears, a steady _thump-thump-thump_ like music pounding through the walls of a club.  He should struggle.  He should find a way to stop this.  To stop Slade neatly stacking one blackmail opportunity on top of another.

               He absolutely shouldn’t be feeling a rush of heat right now.  Shouldn’t be thinking of the sparks and the breathlessness, and the way he said Slade’s name on camera, just for him, and the way Slade had said, ‘ _Next time …_ ’

               Robin swallowed.  ‘Where?’

               Slade’s eye turned up at the corner, and Robin imagined he was smiling.  ‘I’ll send you coordinates.’

               The screen went black.

               Robin sucked a breath, and then pressed his lips together as the coordinates came through.  Only a few streets away—a warehouse, by the look of it.  He snapped the communicator shut.

               He almost plummeted to his death twice more on the way to the warehouse, because his stupid hands wouldn’t stop shaking on the grapple.

               Robin slipped into the warehouse with bo-staff in hand; the door was unlocked, and the surroundings were quiet and empty, the sun just beginning to sink over the city.  Closing the door softly, he padded inside.  Dim electric lights buzzed on the walls, barely cutting into the shadows in the middle of the room—where a lone wooden chair sat.  And opposite the chair …

               Robin’s chest tightened.

               A camera.  Black and bulky, sat on a spindly tripod like a bird of prey glaring down from a telephone pole.

               Chewing the inside of his mouth, Robin turned his bo-staff over in his hand.

               ‘You won’t be needing that, Robin.’

               Before Robin could draw breath, Slade slipped up behind him.  His hand curled over Robin’s, and easily prised the bo-staff from his grip.

               Robin whirled.  ‘Slade!  Give it back!’

               ‘You can have your staff back—’  Slade twirled it expertly, then hit the retract switch; the staff zipped back into its handle, and Slade tucked it in his belt, ‘—after I’m finished with you.’  He gestured at the chair.  ‘Take a seat.’

               Robin curled his fists, glaring up at Slade.  But what was the point in arguing?  Slade had that photo—had two whole _videos_ now—to use against Robin as he pleased.

               Stiffly, Robin walked to the chair and sat down.  Slade strolled up behind the camera, and touched a button somewhere; the camera lens whirred as it focused on Robin, and tiny red light flashed on.  _Recording._

               ‘More home videos?’  Robin hated the way his voice trembled, ever so slightly.

               ‘Actually, I’d like to ask you some questions.’  Slade approached, steps slow and even.  Reaching into his belt, he drew out thin, white cords.  Zip ties.  ‘Hands on the armrests, Robin.’

               On instinct, Robin drew his arms up into his chest.  But when Slade leaned in and curled a hand around Robin’s wrist, Robin didn’t resist.  He let Slade push his hand down into the arm rest, and then tighten the zip tie around his wrist.  Robin winced, the plastic cutting into his skin.  When Slade took his other hand, Robin’s fingers were trembling.

               ‘Nervous?’  Slade’s eye flashed up to meet Robin’s gaze.

               Robin swallowed.  ‘No.’

               Slade laughed, low and soft.  ‘You should think about telling the truth.’

               Reaching into his belt, he drew out something else: a flat, black pad, like a plaster.  Robin’s heart thudded.

               ‘What’s that?’

               Slade pressed the pad to Robin’s arm.  ‘You’ll find out.’  He stepped back, and with a twist of his hand revealed a small, black box.  ‘Answer honestly, Robin.’

               Robin’s eyes flicked to the camera.  He wanted to say something—to put some kind of caveat on _honestly_.  Something like, ‘As long as you don’t make me hurt anyone,’ or, ‘Depends on the question.’  But his throat was dry as dust, and instead he squirmed and flexed his fingers.

               ‘Do you live in Jump City?’

               ‘Yes.’  Robin looked from Slade to the camera and back.

               ‘Did you previously live in Gotham City?’

               Robin shifted his feet.  ‘Yes.’

               ‘Did you come here hoping I would fuck you?’

               Robin jolted, and the chair jerked beneath him.  The wooden legs cracked on the cement floor, the noise echoing through the warehouse.  ‘ _What?_ ’

               ‘Wrong answer.’

               Fire shot up Robin’s arm.

               He bowed over, a scream tearing up out of his throat; surprise as much as pain.  The muscles in his arm tightened, throbbing, his fingers seizing.  Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.  Robin hung his head, panting.  _Electricity,_ he realised.  _He’s electrocuting me._

               ‘Did you come here,’ Slade said again, more slowly, ‘hoping I would fuck you?’

               Robin lifted his head, eyes wide.  The little black box—it was a remote.  For a moment, a similar image flashed into his head—of Slade holding another remote, his bulk a dark shadow in front of bright orange screens—

               Slade’s thumb twitched near the button.

               ‘Yes!’  Robin gasped.  ‘Y-yes.’

               ‘Yes what, Robin?  Say it for the camera.’

               Gritting his teeth, Robin straightened.  ‘Yes,’ he forced out, barely more than a whisper, ‘I came here hoping—hoping you would fuck me.’  His face burned, and he dropped his gaze instantly, staring at his feet in mute horror.

               ‘Good boy,’ Slade purred.  ‘Let’s try some easier questions.  Are you a member of the Teen Titans?’

               A shaky breath.  ‘Yes.’

               ‘Do they know you’re here with me?’

               ‘No.’  Robin’s stomach clenched.  Stupid.  Stupid and risky, and Bruce would kick his ass if ever found out.  But how could Robin tell them?  What could he possibly say?

               ‘Did you enjoy masturbating for me?’

               Robin snapped his gaze up.  Slade was staring, finger hovering over the trigger.  Robin took a breath—

               ‘Too slow, Robin.’

               Slade hit the button.

               He let it go on for longer this time, and Robin could feel that one eye burning into his as he jolted and seized, snarling in pain.  The burn in his arm crept through his body, muscles aching as they spasmed.  When it finally stopped, Robin bowed over, gasping for air.

               ‘Well, Robin?’

               ‘Yes,’ Robin ground out, each breath coming jagged and shaky.  ‘Yes, I enjoyed—I enjoyed—masturbating for you.’  He forced himself to sit up.  His eyes burned, tears threatening as he stared at the remote in Slade’s fist.  ‘Slade … Slade, stop.  Please …’

               Slade tilted his head.  ‘Stop?’

               ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’  Robin’s throat was paper-dry.  ‘Just … just take this thing off.’  He jerked his arm; the zip-tie cut into his skin.  ‘Just take it off, please.’

               ‘Answer honestly,’ Slade said, ‘and I won’t have to shock you again.’

               Robin moaned, but Slade was already ploughing ahead, his next question cutting straight over Robin:

               ‘Do you want me to cut those cable ties?’

               ‘Yes!’

               ‘Do you want to leave?’

               Robin opened his mouth.  Hesitated a beat.  _Trick._

               Slade’s thumb twitched on the trigger.

               ‘No.’  He spat the word quickly, heart jolting.  ‘No, no, I don’t want to leave.’

               Slade lifted his thumb away, and Robin sagged.  This was it.  It was a game.  A game to mess with his head, and that was fine.  He could play games.  Slade wasn’t the first to try and upset a poor, hostage little bird.  Robin gritted his teeth.

               ‘Do you want my cock in your mouth?’

               Robin flinched.  But then he looked up, fixed his eyes on Slade, and said, ‘Yes.’

               For just a moment, Slade was quiet, and Robin wasn’t sure if he was surprised, or pleased.  Or … possibly … _disappointed_.  Disappointed that his prey wasn’t quivering in the corner anymore.  But then—

               ‘Do you like to imagine me fucking your mouth, when you masturbate?’

               ‘Yes.’

               ‘Say it, Robin.’

               Robin swallowed, face burning, and forced the words out.  ‘I like to image you fucking my mouth when I masturbate.’

               Something clenched, low in his belly, and a fresh wave of heat spread over Robin’s body.  He tensed, fingers tightening on the arm rests.  No … surely not.  He couldn’t—

               ‘Would you like to open your mouth and let me come on your face?’

               There was something … _off_ about Slade’s voice.  Something sort, and clipped, and—and— _breathy_.  Robin straightened his back, pushing his shoulders back.

               Slade wasn’t disappointed.  Not at all.  His chest swelled with a weird sense of pride, and the muscles in his thighs tensed, and although it felt like his face must be on fire by now, he said,

               ‘I want you to come on my face.  I want you to come all over me.’

               Slade snapped up straight like a marionette on pulled strings.  His eye burned.  ‘Robin …’

               There was a note of warning in his tone, like Robin was pushing it too far.  Robin sat back.  Pressed his lips together.  Fine.  He could keep playing.

               Slade’s eye flicked down Robin’s body.  And widened.

               Instinctively, Robin pulled his knees in together.  But too late—too late to hide the very _obvious_ result of the heat pooling low in his body.

               ‘Robin …’ Slade said again, and this time the warning was gone—replaced with a touch of laughter.  ‘Are you getting hard just answering these questions?’

               Robin set his jaw.  Took a breath.  Waited—just long enough for Slade to lift the remote again.  Then he said, ‘Yes.’

               Slade lowered the remote, and then tucked it in his belt.  ‘Do you want me to bend you over that chair and fuck you?’

               The remote was gone.  And despite the patch still resting on Robin’s arm, he sensed the game was over.  He curled his toes in his boots.  Chewed on the inside of his mouth.  Slade didn’t move; waiting patiently.

               ‘Yes.’

               He kept his eyes up, and didn’t flinch as Slade swept past the camera, and straight for him.  Robin’s breath shook, and his skin felt sunburn-hot, and he twisted his hands under the zip-ties.  Bending down, Slade rested his hands on Robin’s knees—a touch that sent jolts like more shocks of electricity shooting through Robin’s body.

               ‘Well then,’ Slade murmured.  ‘I’d better give you what you want.’

               His hands glided up Robin’s legs, and pressed into the hard lump of his cock.

               Robin cried out, heat tearing up through his body.  His head dropped back on instinct, and then Slade palmed at his cock, fingers curling and relaxing, and Robin whined.  Slade’s hands felt so different to his own.  So much bigger, and hotter, and firmer.  His legs shook as Slade reached up, unclipped Robin’s belt, and then tugged his leggings down.

               ‘I told you I would have my hands on you,’ Slade murmured.  ‘Do you like it, Robin?  Is this what you wanted?  Is this what you’ve been imagining all this time?’

               Robin opened his mouth to answer, and Slade tightened his grip around Robin’s cock.  All Robin managed was a strangled yelp, his hips bucking into the tightness of Slade’s grip.

               Slade laughed.  ‘Are you close already, Robin?  Did my _home video_ turn you on that much?’

               The chair creaked as Robin arched his back.  _Close—yes he was close—_

               Slade lifted his hands away.

               ‘No!’  Robin lifted his head.  ‘Don’t stop—don’t stop—’

               ‘I’m not going to let you finish yet.  We’ve barely started.’  Slade’s face was close enough for Robin to see through the grill on his mask—to see white lips curling up in a smirk.  ‘Are you ready to take everything you asked for?’

               Robin’s eyes widened.  Everything he—oh god—

               But Slade was already stepping back, loosening his own belt, and Robin’s stomach tensed.  Was he—was Slade serious?  He was going to—

               Slade let his the belt drop.  He slipped the waistband of his uniform down, just enough to show a flash of white hair—and then—

               Robin stared, heart pounding through his chest—his ribs—all the way up in his throat.  Slade was half-hard, massaging the base of his cock in one hand.  Reaching up with his other hand, he traced Robin’s cheek.  His jaw.  Pressed the pad of his thumb against Robin’s lower lip.

               ‘Open up, Robin.  I’m going to fuck your mouth, just like you wanted.’

               Eyes flicking up, Robin clenched his jaw on automatic.  Slade’s eye was hooded, and that smirk behind the mask was smug, as if to say, _‘Coward.  I knew you wouldn’t do it.’_

               Robin opened his mouth.

               Slade’s cock slipped in slow and easy.  The skin was soft and tasteless, and Robin closed his eyes and focused on breathing through his nose as Slade rolled his hips—once, twice, unhurried, like he was savouring every moment.  And gradually, Robin could feel it against his lips as Slade grew harder, the skin firmer, silk-smooth.  The blunt head of Slade’s cock glided over his tongue, and Robin shivered.

_I want you to fuck my mouth …_

               An unexpected throb shot through his cock, and Robin groaned.

               ‘That’s it, Robin.’  Slade’s hand curled in his hair.  ‘Open wide for me.’

               Robin stretched his jaw, forcing his mouth open wider.  Taking a deep, trembling breath, he bobbed his head, letting Slade push in deeper.  He could do this.  It didn’t hurt.  It didn’t even taste bad—not really.  He felt full, and used, and somehow that sent wave after wave of warmth through his skin, pounding in his cock.  Moaning again, he slipped his tongue out, leaning his head in further, inviting Slade in deeper.

               ‘You want more, Robin?’  Each word came out short and sharp, Slade almost breathless as he thrust into Robin’s mouth.  ‘Do you want me to fuck you harder?’

               He couldn’t speak—couldn’t even nod his head—so Robin simply moaned in response, trying to make it long and loud and _hungry_.  Slade’s fingers tightened in his hair, and suddenly Robin couldn’t move his head.  But it didn’t matter, because Slade bucked forward, and his cock brushed the back of Robin’s tongue, and then he was pounding into Robin’s mouth, sharp and fast, and tears burned Robin’s eyes.  He tried to moan again and couldn’t—the sound came out wet and garbled, choked off by the smack of Slade’s cock at the back of his mouth.

               ‘Good boy, Robin.  I’m going to fuck you.  I’m going to make you say my name, just like you said it for me in our videos.  I’m going to make you scream it for me.’  Slade tugged Robin’s hair, sharp enough to draw a sharp, high sound out of his throat—immediately silenced by Slade’s cock.  ‘Just like you’ve always wanted.’

               He stepped back, and Robin spluttered at the sudden emptiness in his mouth.  His longed to wipe his wet lips, and the fact he couldn’t sent a strange, cold thrill up his spine.

               Slade bent, reaching for his belt.  _Remote._   Robin tensed, but when Slade came up, the little black box was nowhere in sight.  Instead, a Swiss army knife flashed in his hand.  He flicked out a short, sharp blade, and slipped it under the zip tie on Robin’s left hand.

               The breath huffed out of Robin’s body as the first zip tie snapped loose.  He stretched out his arm, flexing his fingers.  Then he sat back, giving Slade access to his right arm—and the second zip-tie.

               But Slade closed the blade with a soft snap, and crouched to tuck it back in his belt.  Straightening, he slid his hands up the outside of Robin’s thighs.  Robin let out a slow, shaky breath.  His cock throbbed, and he twitched, longing to arch into the friction of Slade’s hands once more.

               Slade’s fingers closed instead on Robin’s hips, achingly tight.  He lifted, and Robin grunted as he was forced to stand awkwardly, right hand still strapped to the chair leg.  Slade dragged him, stumbling, around the left side of the chair.

_Do you want me to bend you over that chair—_

               Robin realised what Slade was doing a fraction before he felt the solid hand between his shoulder blades, shoving him down.  He flailed with his left hand—managed to plant it on the arm rest, and then his chest dropped.  Slade held him for a moment, pinned in place, bent awkwardly with his right hand stuck underneath him.  He tried to tug it back, but the zip tie wouldn’t budge, cutting into his skin.

               And then Slade curled his fingers into the waistband of Robin’s leggings, and Robin forgot about his arm, and his awkward position, because,

_—and fuck you?_

               ‘Wait.’  He tensed.  ‘Slade, wait.  I haven’t—Slade—I haven’t done this before.’  No response—Slade drew his leggings down, and cold air hit Robin’s skin.  Robin pushed himself halfway up.  ‘ _Slade!_ ’

               A hand planted in his back, pushing him back down.  ‘Relax, Robin.  I’m not going to hurt you.’

               Robin drew half a ragged breath, and then—

               A hand traced between his legs, and curled loosely around his balls.

               All the tension melted out of Robin’s body.  He sagged into the chair.  Slade tightened his hold, just reaching the edge of painful, and then loosened it.

               ‘I said _relax_ , Robin.’

               Robin tried to summon a pithy response, and managed, ‘Hnnnmmugh.’

               Another hand traced down Robin’s lower spine—between his ass cheeks—and then one finger rubbed slow, gentle circles around his ass.  Robin’s eyes drooped and he felt so tense and yet so heavy.  He barely noticed when the finger withdrew—or when it came back cool and wet.

               And pressed, slowly, achingly, into him.

               He shifted, the sensation—alien—but not bad.  No, not bad at all.  Slade pumped his finger, slow, and his other hand reached lower, tracing the underside of Robin’s cock.  Robin moaned and arched his hips, trying to give Slade a better angle.

               As Slade closed his hand around Robin’s cock, he pressed a second finger into Robin’s ass.  This one felt hotter than the first—more tense—and for a moment, Robin gritted his teeth, aching.  But Slade dragged him through the discomfort with soft, easy strokes around his cock, and gradually Robin sank into the warmth and the fullness, and when Slade pressed in a third finger, he moaned.  Pushed up onto his toes.  Sank his chest lower, and his hips higher.

               Slade worked his fingers faster and faster, and Robin was moaning on every breath, his skin boiling, and he was closing in again—this time— _this time_ —

               Slade stopped, and Robin almost screamed.

               He heard the tear of a wrapper; the soft sound of a condom rolling out.  And then—

               Blunt pressure.  Stretching.  _Heat._

               He didn’t need Slade’s hand around his cock.  Slade rolled his hips, and Robin came apart with a scream.  He stretched across the chair, gasping, face flushed, and remembered too late,

               ‘Slade,’ he breathed.  And then, again, as Slade continued to fuck him, each thrust pounding into his body, and again, on every exhale, trying to make up for not saying it as he came: ‘Slade, Slade, _Slade_ —’

               Slade’s fingers traced down his back, and if not for the gloves, Robin knew he would have felt the sharp scrape of fingernails digging into his skin.  He sobbed, Slade’s fucking suddenly too much, the sensation trying to drag him back into an orgasm when he was already dry.  His legs shook and his trapped arm burned, and Slade fucked and fucked and _fucked_.

               When he finally drew back, and out, Robin’s knees buckled.  He didn’t resisted when Slade hauled him up, and slammed him back in the chair.  He blinked as Slade rolled the condom off.  His cock was hard, and scarlet, and Slade curled a fist around it and pumped, and Robin realised he wasn’t done.  Not until—

               ‘Open—’ Slade gasped.

               Robin opened his mouth—opened it wide, like he meant to swallow Slade’s cock a second time.  Instead, Slade snarled, and Robin jolted at the sudden, hot spray across his tongue—his cheek—his jaw—

               He choked.  _Now_ it tasted bad.  Now it tasted like drinking a gallon of saltwater and washing it down with bitter syrup.  Bowing his head, Robin spluttered, then closed his lips and tried and _tried_ to swallow.  His face was sticky; a white trail dripped off his chin and landed in his lap, wet and lewd.

               Slade’s black-gloved hand tapped Robin’s chin, and Robin lifted his head.

               ‘Good boy.’  Slade’s voice was soft and hoarse, and filled Robin with a strange, unbelievable warmth.

               The Swiss army knife flashed again, and as the second zip-tie snapped, Robin groaned and sank back in the chair.  He swiped an arm over his face, and only half succeeded in clearing it off.  A sticky smear remained, tickling on his skin as it dried.

               ‘Next time,’ Slade said simply.

               Robin nodded.  His voice barely came above a whisper.  ‘Next time.’


	17. Hostage Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hostage Situation", requested by mechanicaldamage and yamad-a on Tumblr. :)

Dick could just imagine tomorrow’s headlines.  _Billionaire’s Boy Held Hostage!_   Twisting his hands behind him, he bowed his head against his knees and sighed.

               A pair of black boots stomped past him. Lifting his head, Dick glared up into a face obscured by a shimmery women’s stocking.  Then his eyes flicked down to the tattered bullet-proof vest … and the sawed-off shotgun.

               Tightening his fists, Dick pressed his back harder into the wall.  The hostage next to him whimpered; some guy in exercise gear who’d probably come in just to cash a cheque, and wound up hands tied, lined up against the wall with the rest of them.

               A bank robbery.  Dick was stuck in a goddamn bank robbery.  On a bad day, this should’ve been a fifteen minute job.  He’d cleared his first bank robbery with Batman when he was eight years old.

               Except these bastards weren’t holding _Nightwing_ hostage.

               They were holding Dick Grayson.

               The security cameras were rolling, and judging by the shouting outside an entire film crew was waiting on the street.  Dick sat grinding his teeth, trying to work out how to fight six armed men, with his hands tied behind his back … and trying not to think about how mortifying it was going to be when Batman inevitably showed up.  Any second now.

               Any second.

               Two of the masked robbers stood together near the doors, hissing to each other.  A duffel bag sat at their feet, stuffed until the zip strained not to burst.   Ignored. One of them jabbed the barrel of his gun at the hostages. The other shook his head, and said something too quiet for Dick to make out the words, but loud enough for him to hear a panicked edge in the man’s voice.

               Dick swallowed.  What were these lowlifes doing?  They should’ve taken the duffel and run, long ago.  Before the cops and the film crew and the bored rubberneckers filled up the street outside.

               The explosion shook the building.

               A couple of the hostages cried out.  Overhead, dust poured from the plastic chandeliers as they swayed, fake crystals jingling together.  Somewhere up the line, a little girl buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and wailed.  The men in their stocking masks jumped, their guns twitching in all directions.

_Batman?_

               Dick strained, listening for soft, running footsteps; the swish of a heavy cloak; the hiss of a grapple.

               Instead ... slow, measured footsteps.  The back door—the door that led into the vault—swung open.  And Dick reassessed how mortifying it would be for Batman to arrive right now, because this was much, _much_ worse.

               ‘Gentleman.’  Slade Wilson crossed the room smoothly, his single eye fixed on the six guns now trained on him, each of which dropped as the bank robbers seemed to recognise him.  Or at least, recognise his black-and-copper mask.  ‘Do we have a problem?’

               ‘Damn right we got a problem!’  One of the robbers who’d been squabbling by the door lurched forward.  ‘We ain’t getting paid enough for this shit.’

               Slade fixed him with a cold stare.  ‘Take it up with my contractor.’

               ‘Deathstroke,’ another of the robbers said, more evenly, ‘How’d you even get in here?  The cops have this place on lockdown.’

               ‘Through the vault,’ Slade said.  ‘I made a route.’

               Dick rolled his eyes.  That explained the bang.

               ‘Get the goods and get out,’ Slade glanced at the man who’d spoken first; who now stood scowling with fists clenched around his gun, ‘or you won’t be getting paid at all.’

               ‘What about the hostages?’

               Dick straightened as Slade finally turned to look at the hostages: all forty of them, lined up against the wall with their hands behind their backs.  A row of pale, pleading faces.

               Slade shrugged.  ‘They don’t matter.’

               The room went graveyard quiet.

               Then, slowly, the man who’d argued with Slade lifted his gun.

               Dick barely heard the screams, or noticed the other hostages trying to scramble awkwardly to their feet; to escape.  Blood roared in his ears, and next think he was standing, instincts taking over, security cameras, guns and all else be damned. He launched himself at the robber, foot swinging up in a roundhouse kick that sent the sawed-off shotgun clattering away across the floor.

               The others reached for their guns.  Whipping round on his toes, Dick grabbed the disarmed man by the bottom of his bulletproof vest, and yanked him close to his back.  His arms ached, wrists burning against the zip tie securing them behind him, but he held firm, teeth gritted

               Gunshots burst through his skull like fireworks, and the robber at his back jolted.  Screamed.

               ‘Hold your fire!’

               Slade’s voice cut through the cavernous room.  For a moment, as the echoes died away, everything was quiet.  Dick’s grip on the disarmed robber slackened, and the robber slumped with a groan.

               A moment late, he realised Slade was closer to the robber than he’d been a moment before—as though he’d been about to step in his way.  To stop him.

               Which meant Dick hadn’t needed to.

_Shit._

               Slade stepped clean over the man groaning on the floor.  ‘Hello, Grayson.’

               One of the robbers, now crouching on the floor to help his companion, looked up sharply.  ‘You know this kid?’

               Slade was quiet for just a moment too long.  ‘Bruce Wayne’s adopted son? Yes, I’m familiar.’

               Dick snorted.  Slade was more than _familiar_ , and he knew Dick was more than Bruce Wayne’s son.

               ‘Bruce Wayne?’ one of the robbers hissed.  ‘The billionaire Bruce Wayne? If we ransom that kid ...’

               ‘We’ll all be getting a bonus.’  Slade didn’t look up from Dick’s face.

               Taking a step back, Dick sank into a fighting pose.  His shoulders stained as he fought to break the zip tie biting into his wrists. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

               Even through the mask, he could tell when Slade smiled.  It was something about the shape of his eye, or else in the tone of his voice when he said, ‘Not even for a trade?’

               Dick hesitated.  ‘What?’

               ‘The hostages,’ Slade said softly.  ‘Come quietly, and we’ll release them.’  He paused.  ‘Or you can struggle, get a black eye, and we’ll drag you away after we shoot the hostages.  Your choice.’

               Dick stared.  Slade … wouldn’t shoot hostages.  Would he?

               The longer he glared, the more he recognised the sharp glimmer in Slade’s eye.  The glimmer of humour.  Of enjoying watching Dick squirm.

               Last time he saw it, he was pinned between Slade and the wrinkled sheets of a cheap motel bed.

               Dick let out a slow breath.  Behind Slade, the injured robber staggered up with his arm looped over his companion’s shoulder.  Despite the bulletproof vest, he groaned, one hand pressed against his back.  Dick could already imagine the black bruise spreading over his ribs.

               He looked over at the hostages.  Men and women huddled together.  An old lady with her walking cane propped next do her; a teenage boy in torn jeans; a mother with her toddler cuddled up next to her, crying into her arm.  She kissed the little girl’s head, murmuring something to her softly.

               Another glance at Slade.  No … Slade wouldn’t have them killed.

               But to mess with Dick?  He’d sure as hell get his kicks scaring the shit out of them.

_Bastard._

               ‘I’ll come with you,’ Dick said.  ‘Just let them go.’

               Slade didn’t respond; only jerked his head.  Dick walked stiffly to his side, and then trailed after him as he turned, and led the bank robbers towards the back door.

               Reaching into his belt, Slade drew out a length of material.  ‘Sorry, Grayson,’ he said, without a touch of sincerity.  Without breaking stride, he looped the material over Dick’s head, covering his eyes, and knotted it.  Dick stumbled, but Slade curled a hand around his elbow and tugged him forward.  ‘Just a little insurance.  I don’t want you getting ideas.’

               ‘Ideas like what?’ Dick scoffed.  ‘Being able to see where I’m going?’

               ‘Don’t push your luck—’ Slade lowered his voice, ‘—Nightwing.’

               Dick stiffened, and Slade’s hand tightened briefly around his arm, as if he expected Dick to lash out, or try to run.  But Dick kept walking.  ‘You’re going to tell them?’

               ‘Of course not.’  Slade’s hand slipped off Dick’s arm, tracing his lower back.  Dick shivered as tingles crept up his spine.  ‘We’re ransoming a rich boy, not a superhero.’

               Dick snorted, but allowed Slade to lead him blind—over a squeaky polished floor, and then down a set of stairs, and then over uneven ground.  Rocks skittered away as Dick stumbled and forced his feet onward, Slade keeping him upright with a solid grip on his arm.  He listened to echoing footsteps, and the groans of the man he’d used as a shield.  And then, without any seeming change in his surroundings, he heard the rumble of a car.  Slade planted a hand on his head, like a cop in a movie, and shoved Dick onto a leather backseat, and then they were moving.

               His chest grew tighter every minute, and he had to fight the urge to demand information.  Where were they going?  Were the hostages OK?  Who was Slade working for?  He ground his teeth.  Slade wouldn’t answer—certainly not with these hired goons around—and judging by at least one of the bastards’ willingness to open fire on civilians,  he’d probably earn himself a kick in the face for good measure.

               He could feel the pressure of someone’s leg up against his, and he wondered if they’d all crammed into the same car, and who was driving.  A hand traced his knee, and he jolted, and then that same hand slid a little further up his leg.  Squeezed his thigh.

               And slipped away.

               Closing his eyes behind the blindfold, Dick let out a slow, even breath.

               Slade finally drew him out the car, and together they crunched over a gravel path.  Only two sets of footsteps, Dick realised.  The robbers were gone—retreating to some other hideout, to spend their loot or await further orders.

               Slade let his arm go, and Dick heard a lock click and a door open, and then Slade grabbed him again, and pushed him inside.

               ‘Well, Dick.’  The door closed with a soft but insistent snap.  ‘Isn’t it nice to have space to ourselves?’

               ‘The hostages?’  Dick lifted his head, trying to peek under the blindfold.  It was the safest question—the one Slade was mostly likely to answer.

               ‘Ran into the loving arms of Gotham PD as we left.’

               Hands slid up the sides of his jaw, and Dick tensed, but then Slade tugged the knot at the back of his head and the blindfold fell away.

               Dick blinked at the light; they were in the grey living room of some dingy ground-level apartment, the walls bare and the furniture basic.

               Dick nodded.  Slade didn’t sound like he was lying—not that it was easy to tell when Slade _was_ lying.  ‘So what?  You’re gonna keep me here until Bruce pays up?’

               ‘There are worse places to be held hostage,’ Slade pointed out mildly.  He slid a hand down Dick’s arm, as though deciding whether or not to grab him.

               ‘I don’t want to disappoint you,’ Dick said, ‘but when someone threatens Bruce’s family, normally the _other_ guy turns up.’

               Slade laughed softly.  Stepping back, he reached up over his head, and tugged his mask off.  He set it down on the table in the corner, before unclipping his armour, piece-by-piece.  ‘I’m not worried about that.’

               Dick raised his eyebrows.  ‘Not worried about Batman.  Sure.’

               Either Slade was bluffing, or he was feeling uncharacteristically idiotic.

               ‘No.’  Slade flashed Dick a grin.  ‘Because you’re going to escape in about—’ he glanced at a cracked plastic clock on the wall, ‘—ninety minutes.’

               Dick stared.  ‘You’re letting me go?’

               Slade’s chest-piece clunked down on the table.  ‘After I’m done with you.’

               ‘Done with—?’

               Slade’s single eye flashed up.

               Dick’s stomach tightened.  ‘Oh no.’  But Slade was already turning, stalking towards him even as Dick backed away, until he thumped into the arm of a moth-eaten sofa.  ‘Slade, _no_.  Not right now.  No way.’

               As Slade closed in, Dick hooked his heel over the arm of the sofa, and hoisted himself up.  For a moment towered over Slade, his other foot swinging back over the sofa cushions.

               And then he tried to stretch out his arms.

               It was dumb.  Automatic reflex, ingrained in him from years playing on tightropes at the circus and strolling over rooftops on patrols.  His tied hands caught behind him, and his stomach wrenched, and the room whirled.

               He toppled.

               The sofa was soft, despite the creak of rusty springs, but he landed on his tied arms.  His shoulders wrenched and he snarled, head thumping back into the pillows.

               ‘Graceful.’  Slade grabbed for Dick’s feet, now dangling limp over the arm of the sofa.  He tugged Dick’s trainers off.  One, then the other, hit the carpet with a thump.

               ‘My arms are _tied—_ ’  Dick cut off as Slade captured a foot in one hand, and pressed his thumbs into pad under Dick’s toes.  Hard.  The muscle flared, and Dick groaned.  He slumped, aching as Slade moved his thumbs in reflective circles over Dick’s skin.

               Slade let out a long, low sigh, almost a hum, as Dick tipped his head back.  ‘You need to relax, Dick.  The job’s done.  The heroics are over.  Congratulations, you saved the day.’  His lips twitched.  ‘And you didn’t even need to put a mask on.’

               One hand kept working at Dick’s foot, massaging away tension Dick hadn’t even realised was there; the other crept up the inside of his leg.

               ‘You know,’ Dick ground out, ‘ if you want me to come over for— _this_ —you don’t need to take me hostage.’

               Slade’s hand reached his knee; his thigh; higher.  Dick let out a shaky breath.

               ‘It’s more fun this way,’ Slade murmured.

               He palmed at Dick’s cock, squeezing through the fabric of his jeans, and Dick felt blood rush to meet that pressure.  He let out a heavy breath, heat climbing through his skin.  Then, wriggling his arms underneath him, he found purchase and arched up into Slade’s hand.

               Slade murmured in quiet approval.  His hand slipped higher, shoving Dick’s shirt up over his belly.  And next thing Slade was gliding over the sofa, settling on top of him.  Slade’s head dipped, and Dick felt lips and then teeth on the soft skin beneath his jaw.  Whimpering, he tilted his head up.

               Slade flicked the buttons of Dick’s shirt, popping them open one-by-one until he could smooth his hands over Dick’s bare skin.  Dick shivered at the rough trace of callouses, and then gasped as Slade pinched his nipples—soft at first, and then harder, until flashes of white-hot pain lanced through his skin and Dick whined.

               ‘Mmm, I like you all tied up,’ Slade murmured into his throat.  ‘My captive.’

               ‘ _Oh_ ,’ Dick breathed.

               On instinct, he tugged at the ties on his wrists.  They held firm.

               Slade drew back, sitting up enough to shift his knees up the sofa.  He worked the front of his uniform loose, and Dick parted his lips without thinking to let Slade push into his mouth.

               It was awkward.  Uncomfortable, at this angle, and Dick wished he was on his knees with Slade on the sofa, Slade’s head tilted back and his fingers buried in Dick’s hair.  But Slade rolled his hips, and the sensation of cock brushing the back of his tongue was familiar enough for Dick to simply open his mouth wider, push his tongue out further, and moan.  Slade rocked back, and Dick took a deep breath, and then lifted his head to draw Slade’s cock back in, deeper this time, tongue writhing along the hard ridge at the underside of his cock.  Slade hissed, and Dick bobbed his head—again—again—

               He closed his eyes, and listened to Slade’s stuttering breaths, and Slade’s soft, occasional moans, and the wet smack of his lips around Slade’s cock.  And pressure built, low in his body.  A burning, throbbing ache.  Dick tugged again at the zip tie, pointlessly, longing to wrap a hand around his own cock.

               When he blinked, his eyes were wet, and tears streaked down his temples.  Slade thrust his hips faster, and blood pounded in Dick’s groin.  He whined, arching his hips, chasing the meagre friction of rubbing against his jeans.

               ‘Feeling neglected?’ Slade said.  And damn it, Dick could _hear_ his smirk.

               Dick managed a low, choked groan around Slade’s cock, before Slade drew back.

               Swinging his leg over Dick and off the sofa, Slade stood.  Grabbing Dick’s hips, Slade lifted him effortlessly and flipped him over.  Dick grunted, his face slamming into the sofa cushions without his arms to support him.  Curling his fingers into Dick’s hips, Slade drew him up onto his knees, then hooked his fingers around Dick’s jeans and tugged them down.

               Dick hissed at the sudden cold air on his skin.  And then relaxed, as Slade traced a hand up his thigh.  For a moment Dick held his breath, waiting for the sweet sensation of fingers around his cock.

               But then Slade grazed up past Dick’s hip, over the firm muscles of his ass.  He gripped Dick’s ass in both hands, drawing them apart, and—

               Dick felt breath, and then _wet_.

               He buried his face in the cushions and screamed.

               Slade’s tongue was hot and soft as velvet, and every long, slow lap went up through Dick’s spine like an electric shock.  Dick groaned and sobbed, shoulders shaking, cock _burning_ with the need for release.

               When Slade stopped, he almost collapsed.  He heard shifting fabric; the pop of a plastic bottle opening.  He jumped at the cool drizzle of lube over his ass, and then groaned as Slade slipped a finger into him, sweet and easy.  The finger pumped—once, twice—and then Slade added another, the pressure just barely beginning to satisfy the ache burning through his body.  He felt the probe of a third finger, and hissed—

               ‘I’m—I’m ready—just fuck me.’

               Slade _growled_ , and Dick whimpered as Slade’s fingers drew back and out.  Then he heard the shift of fabric again; the rip of a condom.  Felt blunt pressure against his ass.

               And this time, when Slade pushed in, it was _more_ than satisfying.  Dick groaned, biting into the cushions as the pressure grew and burned and sent sparks rocketing through his skin.  Slade smoothed his hands down Dick’s ribs, and drew back—

               And thrust in.

               Dick howled, arching up higher.  His cock _hurt_.  He needed to come.  He _needed_ —

               Slade rolled his hips again, and again, moving fast as Dick yelled and groaned, back aching, arms burning, legs shaking.  His head whirled and he forgot the room around him, forgot everything except the scalding heat of Slade inside him, and the unbearable torture of the pressure in his cock.

               ‘Slade—’ he gasped.  ‘Slade—please—’

               A hand lifted off his hip.  Dick’s breath hitched.

               ‘Slade, I need—fuck—I _need_ —’

               Slade’s hand curled around his cock.  Dick _screamed_ , Slade’s grip firm and unrelenting, tugging at his cock in easy rhythm with his own thrusting.  A few seconds, and the world whited out—

               Every muscle in Dick’s body seized as he came.

               Behind him, Slade hissed.  His cock suddenly felt twice as big, twice as _filling_ , and Dick sobbed as Slade gripped Dick’s hips again, and he drove down and fucked.  The blood roaring in Dick’s ears felt like the crashing of waterfalls; the crumbling of mountains.  He was torn apart.

               And then, finally, Slade dragged him in close and his hips stuttered and he snarled, and Dick felt a different, softer kind of heat keep inside him.

               Slade lowered him gently.  Dick closed his eyes and listened to the sound of their breathing.  To the rushing blood gradually grow quiet in his ears.

               He didn’t realise he’d drifted off until he woke to the zip tie snapping around his wrists.  Dick groaned as his arms dropped, shoulders searing at the change in position after so long.  His hands prickled with pins-and-needles.

               ‘No time to sleep, hostage,’ Slade said, soft and close to Dick’s ear, as he closed the switchblade.  ‘Time for you to escape.’

               Dick grumbled, and got up.  For just the moment, ‘escape’ didn’t sound nearly as appealing as five more minutes in dreamy post-fuck bliss on that ratty sofa.  He’d feel guilty about that, when he finally got home.

               But then he’d see the footage on the news—the hostages walking out of the bank.  Having their ties cut loose.  Running into the arms of their anxious partners and parents and friends.

               And he wouldn’t feel _that_ guilty.


	18. Denied Food as Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blank White Spaces is done and we are BACK BABEYYYY!
> 
> "Denied Food as Punishment" requested by poppyrous on Tumblr.

Three weeks.

               Robin closed his eyes, bowing his head against his knees.  Three weeks.  That was how long you could live without food.  Give or take.  Three.  Weeks.

               He wasn’t going to make it one.

               Six days without food, and he wanted to scream.  To curl up and die.  His stomach gurgled, sharp pains shooting from his belly up into his chest.  He reached for the bottle of water Slade gave him—the only thing he had in this grey cell besides the cot with its scratchy blankets and the toilet in the corner—but hesitated before taking a swig.

               He only got one bottle to drink per day.

               One measly bottle to fill his empty, aching stomach.

               What time was it?  He looked up at the naked lightbulb dangling from the ceiling.  Imagined it was the sun, cresting in the midday sky.  Sweat tickled his forehead; he wiped it away.

               He opened the bottle, and took a sip.  Forced himself not to swig, although he groaned when he twisted the cap back on.  Maybe he should just curl back up in the cot.  Try and sleep through the hunger pangs for another few hours.

               Something tapped in the distance.  Rhythmic.  Measured.

               Footsteps.

               Robin bolted to his feet.  The grey room swayed around him.  The plastic bottle crackled as he tightened his fist.

               _Slade._

               It must’ve been later than he thought.  Late enough for Slade to come and replace the water.  Outside, the bolt thudded on the door, and then it swung back.

               Robin’s hand shook on the water bottle.

               _Hit him.  Fight him.  Run!_

               He didn’t move.

               Slade leaned against the door frame, arms folded.  No new water bottle.  Maybe it wasn’t as late as Robin thought.  Maybe—

               ‘It’s been almost a week, Robin.’  Slade’s voice was soft.  ‘Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?’

               _Fuck you._   Robin bit his tongue.  His stomach twisted.  He was so damn hungry.

               ‘Yes,’ he croaked.

               ‘Good.’  Slade tilted his head.  ‘Why did I put you in here?’

               It was like being told off by a schoolteacher.  Like being asked to apologise after fifteen minute’s detention, instead of six days’ starvation.

               Robin winced.  ‘Because I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t shoot Starfire.’

               His mind flicked back to the rooftop.  The green glow of starbolts against the scarlet light of Slade’s laser gun, heavy in Robin’s fist.

               Starfire’s scream when he finally did it.

               When he pulled the trigger.

               Robin closed his eyes.  Swallowed down the guilt.  She’d be OK.  Starfire was tough.  If he hadn’t, Slade might have—Slade _would_ have—

_Killed her._

               He shuddered.

               ‘Next time I give you an order,’ Slade said, ‘I expect you to obey me—without hesitating.’

               Robin nodded.  Anything.  Anything to get out of this cell.  To eat something— _anything_.  To feel his stomach full again.  ‘Yes.’

               He couldn’t see Slade’s face, but he could imagine an eyebrow arching under that mask.  ‘Yes … ?’

               Robin gritted his teeth.  ‘Yes, Master.’

               ‘Good.’  Slade’s tone dropped to a whisper.  Robin waited for him to step back; to let him out, but instead Slade stalked into the room.  He sat on the edge of Robin’s cot, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.  ‘Without hesitation, Robin.’

               Robin nodded, numb.

               ‘Come here.’  Slade beckoned with two fingers.  ‘Kneel.’

               Robin staggered closer and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.  Whatever scraps of pride he had left wailed with indignation, but he didn’t care.  Food first.  Survival first.  Pride later.

               He flinched when Slade reached out, weaving his fingers in Robin’s hair.

               ‘You must be hungry,’ Slade murmured.  ‘Let’s put something in that mouth of yours.’

               Robin snapped his head up, realisation striking an instant too late.  Slade’s fingers tightened in his hair, holding Robin in place as he loosened his belt with his other hand.  Robin planted his hands on Slade’s legs, shoving, twisting his face away.  _No, no, no, no—_

               Slade yanked his head back, forcing Robin to look up into his single, cold grey eye.  ‘If you struggle, I’ll leave you here to starve for another week.  Open your mouth.’

               _Without hesitation, Robin._

               A shudder went up Robin’s spine.  His empty stomach tightened.  And for the first time in days, he was glad it was empty.  Glad there was nothing in him to throw up.

               He opened his mouth.

               And let Slade drag him down—down—

               Smooth skin on his tongue and rough hair brushing his chin.  Slade’s fist in his hair and aching knees and choking and gasping and whimpering, tears streaming down his face and saliva dripping over his lips and Robin’s stomach _growled_ and he just wanted to eat—

               The taste was nothing, and then salt, and then bitterness so extreme Robin jerked back, and only resisted spitting by pressing a hand to his lips, shoulders shuddering as he swallowed it down.

               He put his hand on the floor.  Closed his eyes.

               His stomach ached.

               Slade’s hand crept into his hair again.  Soft.  Teasing gently through the uncombed knots.  Fingertips trailing down the sides of Robin’s face.  ‘Much better, Robin.  I think you’ve earned a meal.’

               And despite the taste burning his tongue, Robin could’ve cried with relief.


	19. Gunshot Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gunshot Wound" requested by thatrandomwing on Tumblr.

Robin’s chest hurt.

               He tried to roll his shoulder, and fire shot down his arm, burning up into his neck, thudding in his jaw.  He must’ve yanked a muscle, grappling between buildings on his way back.  Dodging bullets as the security guards fired wildly at him in the dark.

               Of course, this stupid metal neckpiece didn’t help.

               He tugged it, teeth gritted as heat radiated under his arm, spreading over his chest.  Definitely a pulled muscle.  Damn Slade.  Damn his smug smile and his apprentice uniform and his _fetch this for me, Robin, there’s a good boy …_

               Robin slipped through Slade’s dark headquarters, automatically glancing at the screens looming on the far wall.  His friends.  Vitals normal.  Safe, all of them.  Provided he didn’t piss off Slade again.  He sighed.

               His shoulder panged.

               His footsteps echoed, muffled by the dust, as he approached Slade’s throne.  Empty.  He scowled, turning to stare into the groaning, turning gears.  Another ambush?  Another exercise, to teach him vigilance?

               His chest throbbed.

               _Not now._   He didn’t have the energy.

               ‘Excellent work, Robin.’

               Robin hissed, spinning on his toes as Slade stepped out of the shadows behind him.  A sharp, hot stab pounded through his chest at the movement—and yeah, the muscle was definitely somewhere under his right arm, just at the edge of his chest.

               Slade stepped closer, until Robin had to tilt his head back to meet his stare.  ‘What’s the matter?  Surprised to see me?’

               ‘Maybe if you didn’t hide in the corner like a creep …’  Robin dug in his belt, left-handed, his right arm now tingling as pain crept down to his elbow.  His fingers felt soft, half-numb.  He plucked out the circuit board Slade wanted and held it out between two fingers.  ‘Here’s your stupid component.’

               Slade plucked it from Robin’s fingers and tucked it away somewhere in his own belt.  ‘We’ll have to do something about your manners, Robin.’

               Robin didn’t bother to answer; he pressed his hand to his chest, wincing as the touch doubled the pain.  He felt hot under his uniform.  Sticky.  Like sweat.  Or … or …

               Robin’s heart jolted.  He worked his fingers up under the metal collar of his uniform.  Almost screamed at the burning sensation, like hot knives tearing into his skin.  He swayed.  _Oh god._   How could he not have realised?  How could it not have hurt this bad, until now?

               _Elevated heart rate, adrenaline, endorphins …_

               ‘Robin?’

               Robin shuddered, Slade’s voice echoing inside his head and out.  He flexed his right hand; nearly screamed at the pressure it put on his shoulder.

               ‘Having regrets?’  Slade sounded like he was smirking.  ‘You’ve gone pale.’

               Robin drew his hand out from under his collar.  His black glove glistened.  Wet.

               He closed his eyes.

               He hadn’t dodged those bullets so well after all.

               ‘What are you—?’  Slade’s hand closed around Robin’s wrist.  He went still.

               Robin blinked, watching Slade’s grey eye flick from the blood staining his gloves back up to Robin’s face, and then to his shoulder.  Slade hissed, grip tightening on Robin’s wrist.  Robin swayed.  The dark room seemed even darker than usual, the gears whirling away behind him too fast, the screens blinding bright, wobbling like a mirage.

               Slade’s voice lowered.  ‘Why didn’t you say you were hit?’

               ‘Didn’t realise,’ Robin tried to say, and the words came out mumbly and slurred, the way Bruce used to talk when he was pretending to be drunk at a party.

               Slade cursed, and Robin almost laughed, because how ridiculous was that?  Slade, swearing because his precious apprentice got hurt?  But then his vision crackled, and for a moment he felt disconnected, lighter-than-air.  And then Slade was closer, arms outstretched as if to scoop up a child, and then all Robin could see was that split mask and that single, cold eye, and then everything was black.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, AO3 - it's been a while! I'm using Bad Things Happen Bingo to warm me back up into writing Sladin after my Christmas break. If you'd like to request something, please check out my bingo card on Tumblr (I'm EveryDarkCorner there, too), and feel free to send a request there or in the comments here! :)


End file.
